One Day At A Time
by demuredemeanor
Summary: Richard Castle has a plan, Kate Beckett has no idea what he's playing at and what this means. Will she go along for the ride? -Valentine's Day fic.
1. February 1st

**A/N: I do plan to update daily, I'll try to keep the timeframe for updates as constant as possible. If I won't make the update time, it will be posted early not late.**

**Seems ff continues to wreak havoc with new stories so I'm reposting. Sorry to those who've already read, reviewed and altered - but the link appears to have died.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned them, for this, I would be in strife.**

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><p><strong>1st February<strong>

She turns the packet over in her hands for a third time. Reading the elaborate font for what has to be the fifth or sixth time. She can remember every word.

It hasn't changed.

It's not going to.

She doesn't care. It's just a delay tactic. She'll admit that. It's just another opportunity for her to regard the post-it folded against the clear plastic, the soft yellow a stark contrast to the chocolate behind it. She hasn't unfolded it to read the message, not yet. She knows exactly who it's from. She'd known before she even read the label, but the contents of the packet had confirmed her assumption.

When she's even read the warnings about disposing of the packaging correctly she knows she has to open it, that turning it over in her hands to begin the process again is a bit much. It's just a bag of coffee beans, chocolate-coated coffee beans, but still just coffee beans.

If she keeps gripping the packet tightly in her hand, palm a little clammy from the thick plastic, the chocolate will begin to melt under the heat of her hand. She's certain she's thinking about this too much. It's just a gift from a friend to tell her he found something, discovered something he thought she would enjoy. He knows her well enough to know she'll enjoy them, she doesn't doubt that. She wants to call and ask, but that's not the way they work. It's never been the way they work.

She wishes it was. She wishes she could just ring her partner and ask why he's left a simple little gift, completely out of the blue, for no reason at all, on her chair at the end of the day. But she can't do that. Doing that would probably force a conversation about her being on his mind, or one of the many other equally awkward issues they don't discuss. So she won't.

She'll have to work it out on her own or not at all. She just needs the why. Sure her love of coffee is apparent to anyone who's ever met her. But that can't be the only reason. There has to be something else, Richard Castle is not a man who doesn't have a reason. Especially when it comes to her.

She is sure she's had this particular brand before, maybe she mentioned it to him at a point in time she doesn't recall and he's remembered, brought them on a whim as a silent reminder he pays attention. That is one of a million possibilities. She knows tossing around wild theories without evidence is not conducive to finding the answers she needs. Such wild theories are his domain. Her theory may not involve aliens or secret agents, but it is much the same as one he would toss out during a case. A theory she would chastise him for and point out with vigour and insistence that there is no evidence to support it. Except she has the evidence she needs to establish her theory, find her motive. She just can't bring herself to touch it let alone open it.

She really should read the note.

But she's been flicking her gaze to the grinder on her countertop, filled with safe, regular beans and to the machine she automatically clicked on when she came in the door and headed to her bedroom (an unconscious, cursory check of her apartment on the way through) to unclip her piece and secure it away. It's a habit she's fallen into, without considering that it is too late at night to be drinking coffee. But he's put it on her mind and that's where it is staying. So she either needs a cup and to forget the beans she picked up from the place she'd left them on the counter, gripping too tight with her fingers, or she needs to read that note and enjoy his gift.

At least if she opens the packet and eats one, it will sway the craving for caffeine she's had since she found them. She doesn't have to read the message to do that. Though she should, he would want her to. The message may be related or it may not be. Who knows how his mind works sometimes. It's too hard to know.

She stares at the piece of paper, folded so carefully on the bag so that at any angle you can't see it unless you remove the sticky edge from the packet and unfold it. It's got finality that she's not quite open to just yet.

Sure she'd tried the sneak peek tact originally, standing in the middle of the bullpen just after she'd found it, left there for her, waiting patiently for her return. She'd been down in the records room, filing everything away, signing off on it. She'd arrived back upstairs to find him gone for the night and the bag resting in her chair, nestled just into the side of her coat so passersby wouldn't notice it unless they were actively searching. But she'd seen it, almost as soon as she stepped off the elevator. She'd felt the vibration of her phone earlier, shaking next to her leg as she waited on the clerk to acknowledge everything was in order. She'd realised then he may have an explanation. _Night_, was all he'd typed out to explain his departure, not even acknowledging the bag awaiting her. She didn't bothered responding right away, too intrigued by the suspicious package on her chair to stop and respond.

She cuts the corner of the bag with the pair of scissors she keeps by the phone. The strong smell of coffee fills the air and she take a second to inhale it, like she always does whenever she opens a fresh bag of beans. Except this time it's different. The smell of chocolate is just as overwhelming. The twist of the scents, the way they weave together and tangle their way through the air, finding their way to every particle she inhales, into the electrons of every atom.

She pours the beans into a plastic container designed to keep food fresh. The bag won't keep them long, even though she only cut the corner. But that's not the issue. She wouldn't bother with the container if they weren't round little balls, threatening to roll away at the slightest shift. She'd rather not have to chase them across the floor if she drops the packet. She plucks a few of the larger ones into her hand before she closes the lid, pressing down on the seal. She tosses the container onto the top shelf in her fridge, watches it slide along the cool rungs and come to rest against a take-out container from a week ago. She really needs to do some shopping on her next day off, maybe clean out the cupboards. But they're entirely different issues.

She pulls the post-it off the packet as she balls it up to toss into the trash. She really should take care of that as well. But right now she'd rather shower and scrub the day from her skin, change into something comfortable and curl in front of the television or read until she can't keep her eyes open. Maybe on her way back through she'll cross that off her list.

She walks back into her apartment, heading deeper in, toward her bedroom. She tosses an oddly shaped chocolate ball into her mouth. The bitter pop of the coffee bean as she bites down sends the familiar bitter twang through her mouth, more intense than an espresso shot but still familiar. The twang only shocks her tastebuds for a second before the chocolate joins it, soothing the rough edges created by the coffee before she swallows.

She shouldn't eat too many of these at a time. She actually shouldn't be eating them now. It's too late for coffee. It's not that it stops her sleeping. It really doesn't. But it does give her vividly weird dreams. It's like he's brought her a personalised brand of caffeine tablets. For her use only. Maybe he has.

She really should unscrunch the note from her fist, probably already melting into the chocolate coatings slightly.

It doesn't matter.

She leans against the doorjamb of her room as she opens her palm and studies the note again, now wrapped around one of the chocolates, forming a tight ball.

She takes the chocolate from the middle and pops it into her mouth, slides her tongue over it, soothing her mouth before she bites through the hard chocolate to pop the coffee bean within. She untangles the mess the note has formed as her tongue lulls from side to side over the sphere stuck up behind her top front teeth.

She bites the bean as she flattens the note against her palm, deliberately having unfolded it so it would be face down. She regards the ruffled paper as she swallows the remnants of the confection. She's created herself another obstacle, another delay tactic.

Touching her tongue to her teeth she rests her head against the wall. This should not be this hard. It should not terrify her to find out what he's said. It's just a joke gift – she's sure of it. He'll tease her about a love for coffee and for chocolate, that she can now fill both in one place. It's not untrue, but she thinks there may be an implication in the gift. What that is exactly she doesn't know, and she isn't not going to find out staring the blank side of the piece of paper down, as if it has wielded a machete and held her team hostage. It hasn't. It has certainly got her gut clenched as if it has though. Maybe it's just her hostage.

She pops another into her mouth. This time she doesn't prepare her tongue for the bitter assault of the coffee, she just bites down straight away, barely letting the chocolate coating even touch her tongue, not long enough for the taste impulses to return to her brain.

She flips the note as she does. No hesitation. If she can basically handle that bitter twang from the bean then she can certainly handle the note. She holds her breath despite herself.

She can't take it back now.

Whatever he's said can't be that bad. She doesn't absorb the words, just notes how it is just a post-it, a jotted note, not a proper message sprawled in front of her tumbling onto the floor as it reveals it's depth to her.

She swallows the third bean, relieved.

_For when I'm not around, to save the boys.  
>I've heard about your withdrawals.<br>I know you still don't use that machine._

She throws a fourth bean into her mouth, this time taking the time to suck on the chocolate, soothe her tongue. She reads it again, the words didn't change.

She doesn't have withdrawals, does she?

She wouldn't know.

Neither would Castle.

He is always passing her a coffee. There is never enough space between them for her to crave more, for her mind to realise it has been caffeine deprived.

It's his fault, even if she is having withdrawals when she doesn't get a caffeine fix it is his fault. If she's not nursing a cup of coffee it means Castle isn't around. She's pretty sure he started it to keep himself busy, out of her way a little, a small compensation for all the skills he was lacking. Except now he's been hovering in the precinct for so long, part of her team for years, that when he isn't around she neglects to fill the gap he leaves, coffee included. Even when he is there he always arrives at odd times, so it is unpredictable and she can't rely on a steady fix. But she never refills her own cup anymore, she doesn't bother. She's been shown how much more efficient it is when it falls into someone else's hands. So she barely notices on days when he's too busy that she waits for him to come waltzing through the door and pass her a cup. She avoids the precinct sludge and hasn't quite worked out the coffee machine yet. She'd been too proud to begin with and now it's too late to ask. She should look it up online and fend for herself the next time he's out. It would surprise them all. Pigs will fly before she gets a chance to work it out. But that's okay, generally the boys notice her empty cup and add it to their rotation, so it's not like she goes without for very long. At least she used to assume they noticed the emptiness, maybe they had noticed the withdrawals. She feels a little guilty.

She sighs and leans off the doorjamb, popping the last two beans into her mouth, biting through one and sucking the other for a second before biting it as well. Letting the tastes overwhelm her and distract her from her doubts. If the guys minded they would have said something, so she shouldn't dwell on it. She'll just have to make an attempt to buy them a cup when she goes down to get her own, put in some effort, show some extra gratitude.

She puts the note on the bed and proceeds to undress for her shower, covering the paper in her clothes. His words will play on her mind if she doesn't distract herself from them. She hopes she'll forget about it, for now, and just admire the fact he'd thought to give her something so simple, something he knew she'd like. She still can't remember if she's ever mentioned chocolate coffee to him before. It can't be ruled out. He does know of her intense love for coffee and her stereotypical love for chocolate, so even if she didn't share the leap isn't unrealistic. It's not. It's just he shouldn't be giving her gifts, not for no reason.

It's not her birthday.

On her birthday he hadn't given her a gift. He'd only given her a coffee and a bear claw. Granted, he had written 'Happy Birthday' around the circumference of the mug, adorning it with balloons and streamers. Given, the fact it was large enough that the others would see if they so much as glanced at the mug in her hands (she'd downed that coffee in record time). She'd gotten a rendition of Happy Birthday from a few of them and a few jibs. He'd just smiled smugly at her when she glared at him through the day, whenever it came up. If it wasn't for him she'd have gotten away with a few quiet greetings from her closest colleagues.

But he hadn't actually given her a gift. Sure it was a gesture, an effort. But it wasn't a material possession. This felt like it had a weight to it. She supposes it does, he's showing her he's looking out for her even when he's not around.

At her birthday she'd suspected he thought grievous bodily harm would result from a gift, an unspoken threat carried forward from the years before. She knew she'd meant it then, but she's not sure that she'd follow through this year in particular. The statement just didn't hold the same weight anymore. It seemed he realised that too. Maybe he was just making up for a missed opportunity.

She doesn't know what he expects. But she'll heed his unwritten advice and take some of the beans to work with her to provide herself with a burst of caffeine to curb any withdrawals. She won't stop herself carrying out that threat though if he feels the need to discuss withdrawals with her.

She decides as she ducks her head beneath the torrent of water that she'll just take it at face value and take it for what it is: a simple gift from her partner.

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><p><strong>AN: If only she knew my plan. Thoughts? Feedback?**


	2. February 2nd

**2nd February**

She flicks him a sideways glance as she speaks to Esposito, words he doesn't understand, before both men are hurrying past him to catch the elevator before it closes after his exit. He'd catch it for them but he's got to juggle his coffee, her coffee and the box nestled gingerly beneath his coffee cup, his second gift. Another small thing, he's got to keep it small, subtle otherwise she'll freak out, or refuse them. Later on they can increase in size, once she's comfortable with this, once she's worked out it's not so bad.

She smiles as he approaches. "Morning Castle." It's soft, distracted, but she is completely aware of his presence. She's already got her hand positioned halfway across her desk, awaiting her coffee.

He's setting down the beverage, hovering it over the table, positioning it so she can grab it and he can set his own down, but she takes it before he gets a chance. She's taken a long drag before he's even realised he's just set his curved hand onto the desk, as if the cup still occupies the space. He's too busy watching her to even care. He's lucky that she's flipping through papers, eyes scanning quickly as she searches for something in the small text. He can't help the smile which spreads across his face as he removes his hand from the table. He decides now is as good a time as any to take the box from beneath his cup. He flicks his eyes to the empty desks of the other detectives, he's glad Ryan and Esposito have just been sent away. He knows they won't let him live this one down, but he's positive she'll appreciate it.

"Busy morning?" he asks casually, leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of his, taking his own long drag of coffee. He's not going to draw her attention to the box he has his hand curled around, she'll see it soon enough. He doesn't ask if she got yesterday's gift, he doesn't need to.

"The guys have just gone to haul our guy in. Nothing else exciting." She shrugs, still absorbed in the paper, not meeting his gaze. Damn, he wants her to look at him so he can slide the box across her desk.

"What's all this?" he asks as he steals a piece of paper to snoop, not really caring, just wanting her attention, wanting to cause trouble.

"Castle," she warns, snatching the paper back and restoring it to its rightful place within her pile. She still hasn't looked at him for more than a fleeting second, whatever she's got in front of her is holding her interest. It must be a crucial component. He realises he's got very little chance right now.

"Financials? Phone records?" He's guessing, taking wild stabs in the dark as he sits upright in his chair, leaning over to see what she does.

"Phone records." She's distracted as she says it, holding two pieces of paper side-by-side, it looks like she's found whatever she's looking for when she grabs a highlighter and slides it across the page. "We've got him." It's not the first time she's smiled since he's been there. This smile though makes the one before look like she was holding back slightly, anxious still about the case. He really should pay more attention to the nuances of her smiles, it's difficult though, they used to be so rare that it didn't matter what type they were, that he was just happy when she smiled. But now, she smiles so much more, it's like she's lighter, like a weight has lifted. This one is one of those, like another weight has lifted off her and she can relax. Sure she still has to crack their guy, force a confession or trick him with a lie. But they both know she'll be able to.

He's so absorbed in her smile he forgets that he's been waiting for her to turn and face him, just like she is now. She's got her arms folded as she leans on the table, her body directed toward him and the coffee cup once against nestled in her hand. He blinks and steals a glance at the box, checking it is still in fact there. When he glances back up at her she's raised the cup, hiding her smile behind it as she takes another long drag. He knows she uses this time to plan out her interrogation, but he needs to break her ravine for a moment. Then she can bury herself in those thoughts.

As she lowers her head, apparently already reaching the bottom of her coffee, he slides the box forward as she gives her cup a gentle swirl, either checking the level or stirring the dregs. It doesn't matter, she'll see it in a second. He's barely made a dent in his coffee, so he turns his attention to that to avoid continuing to focus on her. still, he watches her from the corner of his eye.

At his movement she flicks her eyes to the table then tosses him a quizzical look.

"What is that?" she asks, confused.

He swallows his coffee, meeting her gaze as he sets the cup on the table, toying with it with his fingers, shifting it across her desk slightly, fidgeting, stalling. Then when she opens her mouth to ask again, as if he hadn't heard he speaks.

"A cupcake," he responds finally. It's matter-of-fact and his shrug adds to the effect. He watches as her eyes dart to the object then steal a glance back at his face, disbelief and confusion more than evident on her features.

"Why?" she asks, still confused.

"Just changing things up. You can't eat bear claws all the time." He doesn't shrug his shoulders this time, just gives what he hopes is a gentle smile, attempting to encourage her to relax. He's not going to tell her he had to go ten minutes out of his way this morning to pick it up, that's not important.

"I can't eat that for breakfast, Castle," she observes, already grabbing the small box from her desk and moving to shove it in her drawer, out of sight.

"Save it then," he says softly, touching her wrist as she moves toward one of two options – the bin or the drawer. He doesn't think she'd throw it away, but just in case he twitches his fingers over her skin for a second, a silent plea to not throw it away once he blinks, or even before. But she averts her eyes and proceeds to open the drawer with her other hand, an assurance. Only once she's flicked her eyes up to meet his again, confused but agreeing, does she proceed to take the cupcake from her own hand and move it to the drawer.

If the faint rattle in her desk drawer is any indication, she won't be throwing the cupcake away, not now and certainly not later. She's apparently heeded his advice from yesterday and put the beans in her drawer. It makes him smile again, wider, forgetting to put his guard up, forgetting he's still sliding his fingers over her skin, forgetting she's letting him or ignoring him as he stares at her intently. Lucky for him, she's busying herself with shifting her stapler to nestle the cupcake in the top corner.

She's nodding, averting her gaze a little and glancing around the room to check for observers. But the glances she keeps stealing back at him suggest she doesn't mind his intent gaze or the fact his fingers are still at her wrist, his touch feather light.

"I'll buy you another cup once we break this guy. It can be celebratory." It is a promise, not a request. He hasn't even bothered to suggest he'll join her, it's her choice. He doesn't even have to be a part of it. These tiny gifts are for her, to give her something concrete to finally take a step toward admission. He needs her to know he's not going anywhere, that no matter how long it takes her to feel ready (he knows that she's not quite ready, he's not stupid) he will be here. But he needs to give her a shove in the right direction, a tiny, tiny shove for the next few days to convince her to give him a shot. These gifts are just something to show her, an excuse to force some form of conversation about their situation, even if it's just her speaking the volumes as expressions cross her face before she smiles and nods in thanks, accepting. That's all he wants is for her to accept it.

They both pretend they don't know it, but they both know how they feel. They both know the shivers that seep through them as soon as the other touches them, even if he is just ushering her through a doorway during a case. He's seen her pull her shoulders up and arch her neck a little, he always brushes it off as the temperature change, but really it's not. It is because of him. He knows she's seen him do the same when she takes a coffee, dragging her fingers over his as she grasps the cup, deliberate or not he has to grip her cup a little tighter in response, to control his own fingers. Then it's just the start of a vicious cycle, until he has to blink or swallow and consciously force himself to let go. He's seen her meet his gaze, seen her concern, her understanding. It is because of her. They both know it. He thinks it's time to at least stop denying it so much, even if they don't move forward right now, she needs to know he's there. He needs to rid her of lingering doubts, they're there, surrounding her, enveloping her in her fears, her concerns – if they weren't there he would be in their place, surrounding her, enveloping her quashing all fears and concerns with his touch, his certainty. That's why he needs to shove, just a tiny, tiny bit, until she sees it. Even if it's just for a second before she pulls back, decides she has to wait for other reasons. He's okay with that, as long as she sees it.

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><p>She nods again, the only response she can muster under his intense gaze, under his feather light touch as his fingers graze the smooth underside of her wrist. She decides she has to avert her attention from him, stop her eyes darting between his fingers and his eyes and his clenched jaw. She has to withdraw her hand and get back to work. She has to force his intensity from her mind, shake off the shivers threatening the erupt from her nerve endings and swallow against the urge to eat the cupcake. It's too early in the morning for this kind of distraction. At least Esposito and Ryan will return with their suspect soon, they'll leave him in the interrogation room and stare him down through the mirror, and she'll have to share her plan of attack with her team, or at least the evidence she has mounted against the guy in their absence. At least that's a good excuse to pull away, steel herself against her responses to him and avoid him until the return of the others, until she has to force her body to behave under their observant glare.<p>

He seems to understand her retreat and backs out of her workspace, she's grateful. He understands if she doesn't have something to give the guys, then an onslaught of teasing will ensue. And it will be at both their expense. The worst part of it would be? Most of it would be accurate. What had they been doing during their absence? She didn't want to even give them a chance to raise such a question. She wasn't even sure what they were doing herself, so answering to an interrogation from them was not an option, not when she should be the one instigating it, directing it at their suspect.

She doesn't have to glance at him to know he's still staring at her, lost in his own thoughts and ideas. But he doesn't say anything more. There is no need. He understands.

She's going to have to go down and grab lunch midway through this interrogation – another opportunity to make this guy sweat. She'll pick up something for Castle as well. Something she can pull out when he drops another coffee on her desk in the afternoon. She knows he'll appreciate it. It's his second effort in as many days. The least she can do is reciprocate with some effort of her own. Even if the only thing she can think of that he'll enjoy that is within walking distance is a chocolate cookie the size of her hand.

She knows he will appreciate the gesture.

She appreciates his gesture. The fact he's headed several blocks out of his way to get her a cupcake from the little known bakery near his loft. He probably doesn't realise she recognises the packaging, it doesn't matter he's ignoring the fact he went out of his way to buy a cupcake so she will too, for now. Yes, the ones from that particular bakery are amazing, but something from the coffee shop he gets their coffee from would have sufficed, the gesture would have been the same. Except it's not at all the same. He went out of his way, again, to do something nice.

She'll have to tell him later to stop going out of his way for these things, the beans had been from a shop across town and now the cupcake. She wonders what he's up to. Why this sudden effort. It isn't unusual he insists on stopping for lunch or dinner. But that's mainly because his stomach is growling so he is assuming she's too distracted to notice her own, too caught up in work to stop and eat. So he prods her. She doesn't refuse, just picks at it when she's not feeling up to eating. It always seems to appease him. But lately she has been better. She's even tried to be the one suggesting they stop for a break every so often. He'd joked about it the second time she did. The first he'd regarded her warily, worried. She knows she's a little thinner at the moment, but surely he wouldn't bring that up, he's not stupid.

But this can't be about that can it? He would never suggest such a thing, not even as a joke or in passing. That knowledge is as confusing as the gifts themselves. It makes her wonder, what the hell is he playing at?

She doesn't have time to consider the answer to her own question, Esposito and Ryan and bundling their guy off the elevator his hands cuffed behind his back, their hands firmly locked under his armpits as they haul him towards interrogation room three. Damn, so much for going back to work. She stands up to follow them despite her lack of preparation, she's got enough on this guy that she can wing it. He's not her concern though, the two detective's flicking their heads, urging her over, are her only concern.


	3. February 3rd

**3rd February**

He's leaning against her desk, not an unusual position. If anything what's unusual is that she's not leaning against it with him, regarding the board with him. But she's too busy pacing the length of the board, pressing the marker against her chin, considering and contemplating as she waits for the guys to return with their suspect, not likely to be their guy, but possible all the same.

He flips it over in his fingers, turning it this way and that, following the edge of the curve then pressing his finger into the point as he follows the straight edge. The longer he holds onto it, the longer he's reconsidering. This could very well be too much too soon, too much of a leap. But he has to quash that doubt. He can't continue for the whole fourteen days without informing her what this is about. He doesn't have to say the words, certainly not. The implication of this particular gift will lay it all out there, no take-backs, no retry, no matter what.

He's stumped with how to place this particular one. He considers slipping it onto her blotter, burying it beneath some paper for her to find as she tries to work or as she packs up to leave. But that's not enough, that's not enough of a statement. This one has to make some kind of statement, she has to find it but not realise the extent of it until later. Until she sneaks away to admire it, away from his prying eyes. It's not that he wouldn't want to look away, give her a little time, some space, but the smile which had graced her face yesterday had a chance of recurring. He wouldn't want to miss that little slip for anything. So he needs to make sure he's not here, when she finds it. He would slip it into her drawer but she has everything she needs spread across her desk and it looks like they're spending the rest of the day chasing down leads so she may not even open the drawer again until tomorrow, and that won't do. He wants her to find it, watch her discover. But he doesn't want her to realise the extent of this. Oh he has no idea. Maybe he's putting too much thought into this. But then again, not.

It strikes him that she has no idea he's toying with this tiny chocolate heart in his pocket. So he wouldn't either. He'll be there when she finds it, unless for some obscure reason she doesn't bring it. The threat of the looming storm makes him realise how ridiculous that thought is, but it also reinforces the brilliance of that option, it's about the best one he's got.

As she turns on her heel again, to retrace her path, her back to him, marker still pressed to her chin, he slips it into the deep pocket of her coat, that pocket she always sticks her hands in.

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><p>He's forced it from his mind. He has buried himself in the board too, searching for the answers, helping her find them, pointing them out to her, leading her towards the truth. He's jolted from the evidence, his attention stolen as she slams her desk phone back into the cradle. He turns to face her, finds her certain and he can't help but cross his fingers and toes that the wild theory he'd tossed out, leading to a series of phone calls, actually pans out. They haven't got much else. They need to get this guy and they need to get him soon. She's already skipped lunch and he isn't prepared for the argument which will ensue later at the suggestion of dinner. She has gotten better, she really has, but cases like this drain her, and she lets them.<p>

He touches her back to lead her out of the elevator, even though she's already two strides ahead, headed for the squad car.

She pushes the heavy door open, sliding her hands along it, lingering at the edge and throwing a glance behind her to ensure he's caught it. He has, almost didn't, too busy watching her fingers slide along the metal.

He stuffs his free hand into his pocket then passes the door off to another officer with a nod. His pocket empty and warm jolts him into awareness. He rakes his eyes over the long lines of her body, studying her the frame of her shoulders, the arch of her back as she fights the cold, the curve of her neck buried in her hair but distinct. Her frame doesn't suggest she's found it as she heads toward the car, but her elbows are poised lazily at the bottom of her rib cage. He knows her hands are deep in her pockets, if she hasn't found it, she's about to as she digs for her keys. He swallows and has to force himself to blink, to at least pretend to continue forwards. He's really not anxious about this one, he's not. But even if he is, it's too late to back out now.

"Come on, Castle. We don't have all day," she calls back, doesn't bother to look at him as she reaches the car. She's not giving anything away. It makes him smile.

He forces himself forward again, studying her carefully as she removes her keys from her pocket and opens the car door with the other. She's had her hands deep in both pockets. He doesn't even remember which side he put it in. He should have paid more attention to it, committed it to memory. There is certainly no bump, no ripple in the fabric to give it away. There is no clue to help him. There was no clue to help her either though. That's why it is the best choice.

But she must have felt it. She has to have. She always sinks her hands deep into her pockets, shielding them from the cold, clenched in fists or playing with her keys he always assumes. It doesn't matter. She has to have found it.

He understands she won't let on that she's found it, at least not yet. She will want to take it out, mull it over under an intense gaze and a furrowed brow. She will want to understand it a little before he offers her any help in the matter. If she even asks. He just has to hope she's not closed off in a panic, steeling herself from him. She will have a big head start, if she has. She might not have. She certainly doesn't seem to be, but she has a phenomenal poker face. But he's pretty sure that poker face will crack once she scans her eyes over it, understands the message behind it. He knows that much.

* * *

><p>She barely pauses to make sure he's following, only long enough to make sure she didn't just slam the door shut in his face. Normally she doesn't have to linger in the door, normally he's already slide his hand along the handle, chasing hers, almost touching as he shares the weight. Sometimes there's nothing almost about it before he steals the weight of the heavy door from beneath her. But when she gets to the edge of the door, she realises he hasn't stolen the weight of it from her hand. It causes her to look back, just to check he is even still there. She needs to check, rarely is there any occasion now when he is not crowding her, helping her, looking for excuses to stand close, brush up against her or just be in the same room as her. She's noticed, how could she not have?<p>

He looks distracted, probably mulling over the case. There are parts of it that don't quite make sense to her either. But as soon as he realises she's waiting, taking pause to prod him to follow, he snaps back out of it, smiling widely at her and taking the proffered door with a polite nod. Not too far from an ordinary response, but it's still typical. Apparently he is still distracted, just less than before.

She's free now to stuff her hands deep into her pockets, shield them from the chill of the air – there is no point pulling on gloves when she'll just have to tug them off again to drive in a second, she worked that out years ago.

She toys with her keys, like she always does, holding the loose keys together, keeping them silent while she toys with the plastic lump at the end of the car key. Then she swallows, has to fight so hard against the urge to stop in her tracks, turn around and ask Castle what it is. Ask him why there is something wrapped in that too-thin decorative foil that adorns sweets and chocolates, but she doesn't. She just blinks heavily and continues towards the car. She needs to work it out before she asks. She doesn't even know what it is. But whatever it is has to be significant, he's slipped it into her pocket.

She swallows against the feel of it, just touching with her knuckle, letting it glide over the cool metal. She drops the keys, letting her knuckle drag further across it. She gains no extra information from her terse examination. So she reaches out the pad of her thumb, twitching the tip of the digit over the object's hard edge. It has a flat bottom. She hooks it behind her pointer finger now, the one with the useless knuckle, and presses it into the deep groove between her thumb and forefinger, finding the shape of the groove fits the cool object. She doesn't hesitate now, wrapping her other fingers around it, rolling it over quickly in her palm. She has to be certain that her realisation is correct. She isn't allowed to make incorrect assumptions about this, not like this one.

She really wants to turn around, glare at him and hold the chocolate heart between her fingers, toy with it while he squirms under her interrogations. But that's what he would expect, that's much too easy. He's caught her off guard so she has to do the same. If she can even bring herself to confront him, somehow she doubts it'll happen. That would be forcing one too many conversations she's just not ready for. But at least she's getting closer.

She traces it's hard edge one last time, certain of the distinct shape before she drops it, just for now, and withdraws her keys from her pocket, several steps too soon. But she can't keep turning that heart over, twisting it between her fingers as she commits even curve and crinkle to memory. It's bad enough that she can feel the weight of it, so heavy, so noticeable now she has to wonder how she didn't feel it before. She can feel it brushing against her hip as it settles deep in the corner of her pocket, skimming across her stomach with each gait. It steals her focus again. Damn it.

"Come on Castle, we don't have all day." She ignores the quiver in her voice, doubts he's paying enough attention at the moment. But she shouldn't question his observations. She doesn't turn to face him as she unlocks the door and folds herself into the seat. She doesn't even turn to him when he bundles in beside her, leaning too far over the console as he settles his large form in the seat, tugging the seatbelt from behind his shoulder and draping it across his body.

She flicks her gaze to his hand, carelessly dangling from the console, and blindly shifts the car into gear, tearing her eyes away only as she lifts her foot from the break, glancing behind her as she moves from the curb, forcing her focus with the motion. She has to swallow again as she swings the wheel back around, manoeuvring from the tight spot, that little weight pressing into her stomach with the pressure of the seatbelt.

She hadn't been expecting something today, she really hadn't. Why would she be?

But this was not even in the realm of what she would have been expecting, had she been expecting.

But she knows she should have been. She should have prepared herself for something else, something more daring. He was pushing buttons, toeing lines and testing waters, so why wouldn't he do this?

They had both been making innuendos and sinfully teasing as long as they've known each other. It's just how they work. Sure at first it had been a part to play, but now, sometimes, it feels like every movement she makes, every comment she makes is given a whole new meaning by a smile or a look in her eye. She knows he's seen them, that's how she saw them. Since she's come back, since he took her back, things have been different. Both of them have been different. She knows there are reasons, too many to name and too many to consider.

But they're still here in spite of them.

He's still waiting in spite of them.

Sure, it terrifies her that he's waiting, that he's patient. But in spite of that she still wants him to wait, stay beside her and let her continue to work through her issues, remove the weight from her chest and find herself again, reform into a former self, a better self.

She can already feel the differences. They're slight but they're there. And she knows that if she can tell, so can he. And he's still here.

He's still waiting in spite of them.

She sucks in a deep breath as the light finally goes green again, granting her permission to cross the intersection laid out before them. She's on autopilot. She can't even remember where they're going. She needs to focus on that. She can worry about the weight in her pocket later. She can worry about why he's given her a heart later. It will have some poetic connotation, she knows that. It wouldn't be from Castle if it didn't. But right now she has different questions she needs answered and while he can throw wild theories around in response, he won't be able to provide her with the solid evidence, the lies to weave her trap and get the confession to lock their guilty party away.

So she lets the weight settle into her hip, surprising herself with how content she is to let it press there, for now. She'll deal with it later. She'll shed it when she sheds her coat when they get back, then later she can consider.

* * *

><p>She only takes it out once she's in the security of her own apartment, front door locked, the deadbolt secure. She keeps it bundled with her keys and phone, a distraction from its taunt shape, the weight of it still heavy as she holds in in her hand.<p>

She heads into her bedroom, keen to change out of her damp clothes. Her thick coat may have shielded her blouse from the falling snow but her pants are soaked, the ice water climbing up her shins, threatening to reach her knees if she doesn't hurry. She tosses the handful of items haphazardly onto her bed then turns her attention to her pants, undoing the button and wiggling free from the wet cloth before she even has time to give pause and notice the silver foil glisten under her bedroom light.

It's not until she's pulled on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and climbed into bed, almost losing it, burying it deep as she cast the sheets aside that she spots her phone and keys and remembers it's weight.

She takes a deep breath as she flings the sheets back over herself, sitting cross-legged beneath them, shoulders against the headboard, her back pressed into her pillow, an unnatural curve in her spine as she eyes the silver object suspiciously. She hadn't noticed the sticker before. Well that is untrue. She had noticed the sticker on the back, holding the mess of foil closed at the back. They're always there, with the ingredients and the best before date, the tiny writing she never bothers to read. Except this does not have that information, this does not have the tiny writing. All it's got is his cursive scrawled across a white sticker.

_Until tomorrow_, is all he's written. But it is more than enough.

She blinks against the words, the weight of the simple phrases he uses almost every day. But now it's different. It's a riddle that isn't too hard to solve.

Whatever he's playing at, whatever this is, he intends to continue it.

He intends to keep it going, tomorrow.

It settles a weigh in her stomach. It's not dread, not quite. It's more like uncertainty, a definite state of unknowing.

The weight of the small chocolate heart pressing into her hip, skimming across her stomach, hanging heavy over her chair, almost pulling her back onto the floor with its weight, doesn't seem so heavy now. The message on it carries the weight.

Though, that message could mean several things. She knows that. She has to remember that. But on that chocolate heart, settled in the deep pocket of her coat, left for her to find, process and relax over (as much as she can under the weight of that symbol), only to turn it over and find it means so much more than a themed confection, a novelty. It's a promise and an unmistakable sign.

She blinks against the weight of his revelation, scrawled across that chocolate. Damn him, she'd kind of wanted to eat it, but now how can she. The weight of it feels like it's going to form a black hole on her bed, suck her deep into the abyss of her mattress, never to return. That may not be a bad thing.

She could pretend she never spotted the message, blindly opened the small confection while it was still inside her pocket, screwed the wrapper into a tight ball and tossed it into the trash without a second thought.

That would be so much simpler.

But he knows her.

He knows she would have set it on her palm and studied it, turning it over and over so many times the chocolate grew malleable under her touch.

Maybe if she clenches it in her fist long enough it will mould into another shape, a shape that will be easier to swallow.

Though, the shape isn't the problem.

It's the words.

_Until tomorrow._

The statement is echoing in her mind, his voice ringing through the room. He has said the phrase enough times that she can hear him saying it with a smile, with a sense of longing, with a tired yawn, with a warmth in his belly as too much wine settles over him, relaxes him as he farewells her at his front door. She doesn't know which one this is supposed to be.

She presses to the top of her skull into the headboard, supporting the weight of her body with her neck as she lifts her shoulders with the force. She lets herself slide down on the bed, keeping her legs crossed, letting the sag of her slack shoulders force her weight down, leaving her with no grounding, no support, no safety net as she lets herself slide.

She regards the confection, now resting level with her shoulder. She has to crane her head a little to see it, that's good. It means she can steal peeks at it when she wants, not have it stare her down and force her to confront it. She needs a plan of attack first, time to consider, a careful plan.

She's being stupid, she realises as she presses a closed fist against her chin, her knuckles pressed her lips. She lets a knuckle slip between her teeth as she exhales against her own skin. She bites down slightly, inhales harshly at the contact. This isn't a dream she can pinch herself out of.

This is real.

He has taken a step.

He's taken a giant step. Really he's leaped over a wall she'd worked so hard to build. He'd parachuted out of a plane and landed on top of her wall, perched himself there with cupcakes and chocolate coated coffee beans, and let her relax, not fear his invasion. It was like he'd tossed the dog a bone before the jumped the fence to rob some picturesque suburban house.

She lets out another shuddered breath.

He had to know that it would work.

That she needed baby steps before he took a leap.

She did need those steps.

Hell, if he'd done this before the beans and the cupcake, she would have been more than a little confused by him. She probably would have laughed it off and tossed it back in his face. But she'd taken the others, hadn't refused them, so she can't refuse this. Without the words to consider she probably would have eaten the thing by now.

But the words, the words changed everything.

They would have changed everything then too.

Before she accepted coffee beans and a cupcake.

She closes her eyes, yesterday she'd watched as his eye lit up as she placed the paper bag with the cookie before him, staying silent. She realises now that was a green light she didn't even know she was giving. She shouldn't regret it, she really shouldn't, but she should have known.

She peers over at the chocolate, past her fist, over her knuckles, having to move her thumb with her other hand. It just won't budge when her brain shoots the impulse along the fibres, the impulse like electricity igniting the cells surround it. She can almost feel the tingle as the command shoots through her, feel it at every junction, every cross roads, feel it weakening as it travels, as her thumbs sends its refusal back.

That's why she forced it.

She couldn't let this get the better of her. Even if now she's got both hands balled into fists, one pressed to her chin, the other clenching the fabric of her sweatshirt, clinging to some lifeline.

She needs to calm down.

She really needs to calm down.

This doesn't have to mean everything it is implied to mean.

She rolls over, on a whim, dropping her fist from her chin and supporting herself on the mattress with it.

She regards the chocolate again. Her hand slackens around the material she's been clenching so tight that the shape of her fist, her sweaty fingers, still imprinted in the fleecy material. She can do this, right?

All she has to do is open it, curl the foil into a ball and forget the message was ever there.

She can do that.

Really, she can. But her fingers are hovering over it. Like now there is the threat that it will jump out and bite her, it won't. That is not even possible.

She closes her eyes, swallows and urges her breathing to slow, to even out. She needs to be calm.

He'd said 'Until tomorrow,' she could have to steel herself again tomorrow. She will have to steel herself tomorrow, she's not stupid.

She has to get her composure back before then. But to do that she has to remove the traces of what's stealing it, she has to overcome her obstacle.

She exhales heavily and picks it up rolling flat onto her back, sliding her legs against the sheets. She shivers at the cool metal, the cool fabric at the back of her knees and the chill holding it gives her.

She bites her lip much too hard as she carefully peels back the sticker, unwraps it like she's some child who has set herself the challenge of not tearing that too delicate foil. She lets the imprint the heart rest against the pad of her thumb as she flips the chocolate over. Completely smooth and surprisingly solid given the day this poor thing has had, the miles its travelled, the hot hands turning it over.

The thought causes her to smile, drop her tender lip from her teeth. She hadn't considered that possibility. He would have debating this too. He would have regarded it and examined it, probably with a depth far greater than her own. He would have been considering her reaction even before he considered his own.

She flicks her tongue out to touch her lips, soothe the tender skin, before she presses them together in a tight line, trying not to smile again.

She won't do him the dishonour of not eating it so she closes her eyes and puts it in her mouth, rolling over rand curling up on her side. She stretches an arm out and sets the foil on her bedside table, she can't bear the thought of squashing it into a tight ball and throwing it away, at least not until tomorrow.

She chews the chocolate, swallows the irony with it as she flicks off her bedside lamp. She doesn't need to read tonight, her mind has stories of its own to spin out for her.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I want to thank you all for reading, reviewing, altering and favouriting. But I want to thank kimmiesjoy specifically. Your help with this has been amazing. Your simple suggestion made this whole story click together in my mind and that is why it is working the way it is, so thank you Jiminy.**


	4. February 4th

**4th February**

She has the day completely to herself. She'd realised that when she woke. The thought had startled her awake. She had no case to close. She had no paperwork to eat away her time. She had nothing to keep her mind off that little piece of foil resting beside her alarm clock and the words she can see scrawled across the sticker.

Today is tomorrow.

She won't let it hang over her head. She can't let whatever she's feeling, some feeling sunk so deep in the pit of her stomach that she can't name it, not quite.

She has to find something to occupy her mind. At least she has a dozen things she can do, things she's been putting off, things she's been meaning to do, things on that ever-growing mental list. They're not perfect, they're not a long term distraction, but they'll do.

She's not on call today, but she is clinging to the slim chance she could be called in for a high-profile case. If something big happens, dispatch knows to bring in her team. At least she hopes they do. Is it completely wrong to wish for some high-profile individual to be murdered so gruesomely that the NYPD's only option is to recall her team?

Yeah, they're good, but they're not that good. There are other detectives on the squad who are capable of solving a crime. She just doesn't need the time to think.

So she doesn't use it.

She forces herself to eat and brings her coffee back into her room while she finds something to wear. Her decision made to forgo a shower and clean every square inch of her apartment. A time waster, a distraction greater than no other. Plus she's been meaning to do it for a while, so why not today? What better distraction than that? She will just bury herself in it, forcing her mind to focus on dirt and grime and maybe some mould and not on him and chocolates and cupcakes. And most certainly not on 'tomorrow' being today.

It probably won't work but she has to try. She has to at least try to distract herself.

It works.

She cleans the whole place in four hours, like some kind of crazed person. She doesn't stop until she has cleaned everything she can possibly think of, moved everything she can alone, wiped and dusted and vacuumed everything she can possibly get behind. She slips into the shower and washes the sweat from her skin, debating her next course of action, her next distraction. Yesterday she'd made cursory plans with Lanie to meet for lunch, but while that would serve as a distraction, and pretty good one, that woman can read her like a book. She doesn't feel like heralding an onslaught of questions, trying to find answers she doesn't have about things she's not understanding herself. she's actually surprised she hasn't received a phonecall requesting lunch, a thin veil over the fact she's been dodging her and it is time to fess up. But maybe Lanie has her own distractions. Regardless she still needs to fill in her afternoon, and her evening.

She has other options.

She redresses and heads out, deciding that groceries are the easiest way to waste an hour, plus she's hungry and after cleaning it out she knows exactly what is in her fridge – absolutely nothing. Her cupboards are also embarrassingly sparse. She's even reaching the bottom of the coffee jar. It's time to fill them.

She returns, bundling the half-dozen bags into one hand so she can open the door and get inside. She busies herself putting everything away. After she comes out of the bathroom, glad she's restocked her supplies in there as well, she collapses onto the bed, it's more comfortable than the couch and its proximity just an added bonus.

She regards the ceiling, carefully studies it, notices a crack in the cornice she decides she should keep an eye on. It looks like it might travel.

She wants to laugh at the thought.

She does a little, at herself.

Not too much though. She doesn't want to sound like a crazy person.

But the small chuckle she lets out sets free lifts a weight from her chest.

She huffs out a deep breath.

This will be okay. All things considered, the complication of their relationship – what it is and what it isn't, shouldn't hang over them. It shouldn't stop her enjoying today. She hasn't even spoken to him or seen him. She pushes the thought aside. She spent the whole day with him yesterday. When did she start wanting to see him on her day off as well? Maybe it has more to do with knowing he is associated with that sunken feeling nestled in her stomach.

Who knows? She certainly doesn't.

It doesn't matter, she's not going to find out anytime soon. 'Tomorrow' will be today whenever he's ready. It could be days away, or weeks. Sometimes tomorrow never comes. She quashes that thought.

He wouldn't leave her hanging too long though, surely. He might like to pull her pigtails, push her buttons, but he isn't cruel. He wouldn't make a gesture about 'tomorrow' and have it not be today.

He wouldn't.

He will probably wait until the last possible second to offer an explanation, to appear out of nowhere with another small surprise to throw her off-centre, force her to steel her focus and graciously accept his offering. She wouldn't turn it down. Though there are certain things she can't allow him to do. Not without warning, not against her knowledge. But surely he wouldn't push it too far.

But then again, this is Richard Castle. Who knows how his mind works?

Well she does, she knows that. But even she doesn't follow his erratic thought process all the time. At least she's quick to catch-up and understand.

She just has to hope he lets her catch up.

That would be her only request. Were she to get a say in the matter, all she would ask for would be no surprises. Sure, turning up unannounced with a small implication of a step forward in this tangled oddly-coordinated dance would be okay. She may need him to lead, may be happy to let him take charge, but she needs him to give her time to follow, to keep up.

She doesn't want extravagant. She's never been a fan of the idea. He loves extravagance and flamboyance, but he knows she doesn't. He wouldn't press that much, would he?

She doubts it.

She turns her head, flicking her gaze to the foil in its new place on her dresser. She's ignoring the permanence of that move. But that small heart, while sinfully delicious and quite meaningful, symbolic even, was not some extravagant, unavoidable, obvious monstrosity. Yeah it had been distracting as she found it, then later when she read the words, it seemed like a monstrosity. But now, after considering a few of the other, more sickening possibilities, that particular gift isn't so bad. He could have given her a balloon with the same message.

She shudders at the thought and flicks her eyes to the post-it that's folded, perched on the dresser, opposite corners so that when she steals a glance at one, she doesn't see the other, so it is not possible she could be overwhelmed by both at once – separately they're okay. Together they're still a little too much.

She realises the common thread, should have seen it sooner. Everything is edible.

So today, it would follow suit that it would be edible. But he's made no contact with her. Not suggested dinner, not suggested lunch, not even suggested they meet for coffee. They've done that before, after a tough week, sat in silence in a coffee shop, surrounded by people who were so unaware of the horrors of their week. The silence of her apartment but the thought of him sitting stoically beside her is oddly comforting, even if he is the source of her current discomfort.

She checks her phone just to be certain she hasn't missed something. She slides it from her pocket, urges it from its slumber.

Nothing.

So the options for today being 'tomorrow' are beginning to run thin. Especially, considering he hasn't made contact. But he might. He could even just turn up at her door unannounced. It wouldn't be the first time.

With a huff she sits up again, she needs to occupy her mind. It's barely mid-afternoon but she needs to find something, she is not just going to sit by the door clutching her phone waiting for him to make his move. She doesn't doubt there will be a move. Just the when, the where and the how escape her. She isn't even letting herself consider the 'what'; there are just too many options. But she certainly knows the why – he is trying to prove a point, deliver a message. She doesn't know the message. But she does know there will be one. She isn't bothering to guess, if she tries to work it out she'll run herself ragged. And then she will end up wrong. So she's putting it to rest, leaving it to stew in her bedroom, on its own.

She just needs something else to occupy her mind, everything is cleaned and the fridge is stocked. But there has to be something else. She scans the room, flicks her eyes over her dresser again, forcing herself not to think about it, scans her eyes past the pile of laundry in the corner (that can be a job for another day there is too much waiting around). She needs to completely bury herself in a task, when she reaches the empty nightstand on the far side of the bed she knows what she needs. But it isn't over there.

She spins herself around and scoots over the bed to her own nightstand. The small stack of books behind the nightstand should suffice in occupying her mind. And there are certainly more where they come from.

There are only three books on her nightstand, her to-read pile, but the middle one is one of Castle's. She's half way through all of them – something she's not too happy with, but after some days she just needs something different, something new, something with a different mood to your own.

But she won't read those books, not today. They are not a distracted, they're a reality.

She needs something new, something she hasn't even looked at before. She needs a big distraction. She needs to go to the bookstore. She grabs her stuff and heads out, not bothering with her own bookshelf, she'll find more of the same.

* * *

><p>Kate Beckett can consider herself successfully distracted. She's wasted an unknown two hours perusing the shelves, reading every blurb she can get her hands on, eyes scanning the covers, studying as she attempts to leech the story from within. When she realises she's hit the teen literature she sighs and doubles back, holding onto the stack of choices she's kept in her arms.<p>

She has enough reading material to bury her for a month. But she isn't ready to leave just yet. She likes this world too much. So she settles herself into one of those too worn chairs and begins the first chapter of her first choice – she doesn't even care about the specifics of the plot. Her only requirement for selection had been a world far from her own. No feature to remind her in any way of what she's trying to avoid.

She's four chapters in before she looks up again, takes in her surroundings, jolts back to reality. Her legs are protesting her position but she doesn't want to move. She knows she will be assaulted by pins and needles as soon as she so much as wiggles a toe. But it has to be done, so she starts small. The result was as expected and she decides she should shift position, lift herself off the seat and stretch her hunched back. Her mother always chastised her when she curled up in a chair to read and it's a habit that's never been broken. It's one she doesn't want to break now, she can hear the reprimands as clear as day.

She realises when she gingerly sets her foot on the floor, that she's kicked off her shoes in her comfort. She glances around, notices how sparsely the shop is populated at the moment but resigns that she should put them back on, alone or not. When she leans forward she can't help but notice that the girl behind the desk is gone and it's just an older woman meandering about putting stock back on the shelves. She glances at her watch.

No wonder this place is deserted. It is nothing short of dinner time.

She gathers her things. She'll leave this woman to spend the last few opening hours of the trading hours in peace. She waits silently at the counter to pay for the books, busying herself with buttons to make it clear she hasn't minded the wait as the woman wanders back across the store. The woman regards her warmly, giving her a knowing smile. She takes her card back as the cashier sets it on the counter, giving the woman a tight smile in return. She thanks her and leaves.

She presses the stack of books against the doorjamb, and digs in her pocket for her keys. The cold metal shocks her hand and she has a curious sense of déjà vu before she forces herself to stop. She's been sitting on her coat for the past three hours. She may have been buried in the book, but she would have noticed Richard Castle sneaking up beside her and sliding his hands beneath her. She most certainly would have noticed. She shudders at the thought as she clenches the keys in her hand, twisting them around until she finds the one she needs. She shoves it into the lock and leaves it there, turning the knob with her barely free hand, her elbow settled on the books just in case.

She lets the door swing open, kicks off her shoes and heads over to the coffee table, setting her stack down. It's much larger than she intended but that's okay – it isn't like she won't read them eventually. She runs her fingers through her hair and tugs on the buttons of her coat, urging them to unhook from the thick material surrounding them. She turns her attention back towards the door as she undoes the last button, already moving to wriggle her shoulders and arms free from the confines of her coat.

That's when she spots it.

Damn it, Castle.

Today is tomorrow.

She sighs heavily and shrugs off the rest of her coat, tossing it onto the end table by the door. She can deal with that later.

She tugs her keys from the lock as she regards it curiously. This is most certainly not edible. In some cultures possibly, but she certainly won't be eating a cactus. And damn it there is another note, poking out from beneath the saucer of the pot. She tosses her keys at the couch, just missing but not caring. She'll deal with that later too.

She crouches over the curious plant. This is not what she was expecting. But that's why it is so much like Castle. She can't help but smile.

She wonders when he stopped over exactly. She can't be certain that it wasn't there when she returned with her groceries. Or even before. But she doesn't know. What's the point on dwelling on the 'when' now that she's found it?

Why does she feel oddly excited at the prospect of this gift's meaning?

She supposes it doesn't hold the symbolic shape and texture of yesterday's surprise. But still it has to have a meaning. Castle wouldn't just leave a cactus on her doorstep because he feels like it. unless that is the meaning, that not everything has a meaning. Now she's just getting philosophical.

She picks it up, catches the note between two fingers as it drops off the base of the pot, the static from the terracotta not enough to hold it there.

She realises as she stands again, kicking the door closed with her socked foot that this note is longer than the others, folded over on itself but still the size of her palm. Has he finally given her an explanation? Maybe it's just big so it didn't get missed.

She isn't sure if she wants an explanation about what he's playing at. Sure she wants to know, but a reason puts a label on this. A big fat label that neither can escape from, neither can brush aside as a simple gesture. She doesn't need an explanation to know this is more than a simple gesture.

She moves across to the couch, settles the small pot on her stack of books, a pedestal so she can take a second to study it, toy with the note in her fingers. Just for a minute, she is not going to stare it down for too long. This gift can't have connotations that can be deduced by a stare down. As easy as that would be, it won't be happening.

She toys with the edge of the note, slipping her thumb into the opening, keeping the fingers of her other hand firmly pressing the fold together, so it's still closed. But she's looking at the ornate pattern of the pot, faint the twists and curves painted on, barely visible, are stealing her focus, getting her lost in their depth. It is strikingly beautiful.

He certainly has good taste.

She smoothes the note over her knee, opening it and running her fingers over it, enjoying the odd crinkle of the smooth paper as it slides beneath her fingers. Today it's different, the note doesn't seem daunting. It's peculiar, it's intriguing and she is so absorbed she's reading the note before she realises.

_It's not some metaphor for you being a cactus, don't worry.  
>A rose seemed a little too cliché and everything else needed too much attention.<br>Also, that odd lump on the back is supposed to be a flower bud. I'm doubtful, but we'll see.  
>Until tomorrow, Detective.<em>

A cactus. He picked a cactus, or was swayed towards it, she isn't sure. It doesn't matter.

The prickly object before her suddenly seems warmer, more welcoming. She is intrigued by the supposed lump at the back though. She closes the note again and sets it between her fingers as she picks up the pot, spinning it so she can see the pustule as she walks, headed back to her bedroom, to her dresser. She agrees with him, it certainly doesn't look like a flower bud, but she's never really seen one in person before so she can't know for sure. She stops off in the bathroom and puts some water on the saucer, then continues carrying it carefully back to her room.

She puts it back in the corner of her dresser, where it will catch the sun in the morning through the crack in her curtains. She wedges the note beneath it, sliding her fingers along the wood as she retreats, enjoying the odd reverberation as the pads of her fingers grip the wood and she continues to slides, an odd quiver to the movement. She can't stop smiling. She really can't and she can't tear her eyes from it either. She's not admiring it, she's not.

But she is oddly glad it's something concrete, something solid that seems to prove that she didn't just get a craving for coffee and imagine his chocolate covered beans, or buy herself a cupcake and just happen to eat it beside him, or find a chocolate heart in her pocket a leftover from who knows when. She flicks her gaze to the foil and the post-it and suddenly wants to put them together.

She slides them under the saucer and has to smile. They're hidden but together. All three of them. The weight of that pot is grounding them, keeping them just out of sight, but she's still aware of them when she spies the cactus later. The cactus can keep them, until tomorrow. Who knows what he'll be doing tomorrow.

But she knows it will be another today.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Until tomorrow, folks.<em>**


	5. February 5th

**5th February**

They haven't stopped all morning. She'd called well before what was considered respectable on a Sunday. But he hadn't made a comment, too morbidly happy with the death of a New York citizen to mind too much. When he had grunted in greeting she had given a soft chuckle, not even needing to say anything and he was telling her he would be ready in ten as he already dragged himself from the bed.

"I'll be downstairs," she said quickly before she hung up, a door shut, like she was just getting in the car.

She had been downstairs when he'd arrived in the foyer of his building, content to stay out of the bitter cold of the morning, but finding there was no need. She was hunched slightly in her seat, curled a little around herself, leaning back on the door, like she does when she's on her cell. He didn't hesitate, just moved out into the cold New York morning and slide into the warmth of the car beside her. She glanced up at him, tight smile playing on her lips.

"Espo and Ryan just arrived," she informs him as she spins back in the seat, taking a mug from the holder between them and passing it to him.

He nods in thanks, taking a long drag.

As she shifts the car into gear, spinning the wheel to drag the tyres against the asphalt, she smiles across at him again, a little wider. Something he can't place is also glinting in her eye. If he didn't know better he thought it was teasing, it's that look she gets as she makes a comment, hurls half an insult at him, or when she realises she's just won some argument. He brushes it aside. Who knows what's going through her mind sometimes.

But then she does it again, steals a glance at him barely a minute llater.

Then again as they get stopped by a red light.

"What is it?" he asks. "Do I have toothpaste on my face?" He rubs the corners of his mouth, touches his chin.

When she doesn't respond, just shakes her head and smiles a little wider. The change in the light causing her to look away again as the cars around her begin to move.

"On my shirt?" he continues as he cranes his neck and tugs the shirt from against his skin.

She gives a light chuckle, not hesitant but soft.

Now he's smiling with her, wanting to laugh with her too. But first he needs to know _why_.

"Beckett, what is it?" He's starting to worry and she finds it even funnier. He worsens the situation, running his fingers through his hair, a clear sign he's nervous, a little self-conscious – something she will never get seeing in Richard Castle.

She raises an eyebrow in response as she changes lanes, feigning distraction by the road, like she's trying to concentrate and can't spare a second to answer him, to put him out of his misery.

"Serious, Kate, what is it?" Now he's using her first name she lets her shoulders shake with the chuckle, stealing another glance at him, her eyes carefully scanning his whole face, giving nothing away.

"Did you look in the mirror before you left, Castle?" she teases, finally giving him something concrete.

He touches his nose, his chin, the corners of his mouth again and even runs his tongue over his teeth. "What is it?" he asks as he slides his fingers to his ears, tugging on the lobes, checking there too. Why exactly, she has no idea.

"Your hair, Castle," she says, not looking at him. But she doesn't miss the flash of dark material as he raises an arm to his head, almost simultaneously craning across to look in the rear-view mirror at himself, almost bumping into her in the process.

"Jeez, Castle," she admonishes.

"Sorry," he says softly, leaning back across the car, still attempting to smooth some of the wayward strands.

"There is a mirror on the visor," she dismisses, waving at it, shooing him away. She waits until he's settled in with the smoothing and twisting and… Is he flicking his hair? She isn't going to ask. "I don't know that it'll do much good, Castle," she says softly, flicking her eyes at him, finding him watching her in the mirror. "It seems pretty wayward."

He sighs heavily. "Yeah." He'll just have to wait until they get back to the precinct.

He leans back heavily in the seat, drinking more of his coffee in large gulps.

"Seriously though, didn't you look in the mirror before you left?" She steals another gaze at him as she turns the last corner before she has to start scanning building numbers, checking if she's headed in the right direction down the street. She is. The buzz of the crime scene can be seen further ahead, luckily she doesn't have to head back around the block this time.

He didn't really bother to look in the mirror. He'd be too hurried rushing around trying to put himself together with enough time to make them both a cup of coffee, pour it into a travel mug and give her today's gift. But when he'd brushed his teeth, swiped the back of his hand over his mouth he had discovered he desperately need to shave. So he'd abandoned the plan, for now, and would have to do it later, make it work with what he could find at the precinct.

If he was honest he'd also hesitated with doing it straight away, at an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. She wouldn't suspect him handing her a coffee would be too out of the ordinary, but he hasn't seen her for a little too long. It's too hard to gauge her reactions to these gifts so-far. Sure, she hasn't called him in a fit of rage to yell and swear and order him no more and never again, but she hasn't mentioned them either, not even in passing so he isn't sure. And she sure as hell isn't giving anything away right now, steeling herself for the crime scene, focusing her breathing and her attention on nothing else.

But when she pulls up, reaches for her coffee and gathering her phone to clamber out of the car, he catches her eye, nods in readiness. He doesn't miss the controlled smile, her lips pressed tightly together, just quirking a little in the corners. She may be carefully in control, but that hint of a smile gives her away completely. Today is the right day to do this.

* * *

><p>She's so buried in the financials for their latest victim, his company's records, trying to follow a money trail so complicated it is doing his head in so much that he needs a coffee. He leans forward to grab her cup, normally she snatches it and passes it across to him, but she's so buried she doesn't even blink as she leans as far back in her chair as she can, tilting it on that hinge she shouldn't trust, allowing him to steal it for himself. He could have stepped around her, moved to her other side, but why not seize an opportunity she's giving? Even if she doesn't realise it.<p>

He heads back to the break room, after rinsing them out he puts them on the almost empty shelf, hiding them away a little so no one grabs them by mistake. He flicks his eyes to her as he heads back out into the bullpen, careful to avoid her very narrow line of sight before ducking in front of a crowd of detectives as they move through the large room. He doubts she'll even notice he's gone, this will only take five minutes.

* * *

><p>Kate blindly gropes for her mug, sliding her fingers across her desk as she flips to another page, hunched forward over her desk, her other hand supporting her protesting neck, her boggled mind. it's not there.<p>

She blinks at the realisation Castle took it away, to refill it at least. She flicks her eyes quickly to the break room, doesn't catch sight of him, but that isn't uncommon. He's probably leaning back against the table as he waits his turn; someone else is hunched over the machine after all. She forces herself to keep track of the trail, if she misses something she's going to have to start again, it's already headed into the late afternoon and she doesn't fancy a late night spent chasing her tail as she tries to follow the evidence.

She catches another sign of it, streaks her highlighter across the line (so she can find it again later). She's just resettling in as she hears him move beside her, sit heavily in his chair and rest his elbow against the edge of her desk, crinkling some of the mess of paper. She lifts her eyes to chastise him, tell him to slide it across if he wants to put his arm on the desk, if he needs more room when she realises, it wasn't his elbow he set against the desk. It was a large cup of take-away coffee, from the shop downstairs.

She eyes him curiously, a little cautious. Nothing he is doing lately is an accident.

He smiles, tipping his own large cup back and drinking deeply. He doesn't break contact with her as he does it. She watches the line of his throat as he swallows, the abrupt rise and fall of his larynx making her swallow as well.

"It's bigger," he offers as he lowers the cup, seeming curious about why she's watching him.

"I-" She stops, realising she doesn't know what she was about to say, not wanting to find out. "What?" she asks, finally reaching and grabbing hold of her cup.

"You're going to need coffee. That machine's amazing and all, but you're going to need more than a puny mug to get through this paper trail." He shrugs like its no big deal he is being thoughtful, yet again. Does this man ever stop? It's little things like this that make her glad she persevered with him in the beginning when he was infuriatingly annoying, albeit helpful.

" I've got a feeling its going to be a long night," he says softly, breaking her thoughts to just reinforce them again.

"Thanks Caste," she says, raising her cup a little in his direction, a sort-of toast but a definite thanks.

She buries herself in the paper again, keeping the coffee cup beneath her hunched form when it's not in her hands. As it empties, she starts to toy with it, not even paying attention as she spins it in front of herself, resting it on its edge as she rocks it back and forth. It's not until that it's almost empty and she's basically pulling it apart that he says anything.

"Something on your mind?" he asks quietly.

She startles a little at his voice, too wrapped up in the paperwork to have noticed him watching her intently, until now that is. She doesn't flick her eyes up to him. "This trail is insane," she exhales, turning yet another page.

He stays silent a moment. Then he speaks, his voice breaking her concentration more forcefully this time.

"Are you just going to keep pressing divots into that cup or are you actually going to finish it off?" he teases softly, low enough so neither Esposito or Ryan turn to glance at them, both too absorbed in their share of the legwork to already be paying attention.

She glances at him, rolling her eyes then darting them down to the cup beneath her. She's depressed the hard ridge of the lid, squashed the bottom out of shape (she's surprised it isn't leaking) and just about flattened the corrugations in the cardboard slip adorning the walls, serving to protect her against the heat of the cup, its basically slipped down the cup it has lost almost all its shape.

She flicks her eyes back to him, gives a quick shrug before she downs the last of the coffee, letting the extra piece of cardboard remain on her desk while she takes the last two gulps. The luke warmth makes her cringe a little, but coffee is coffee. Plus this was a nice gesture on his part. She sets the empty cup down in front of him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to comment.

But he doesn't, just flicks his own eyes to the remnants of the cardboard on the desk in front of her.

She follows, realising she left it discarded in front of her, she moves her hands as she moves her eyes back to it. except she stops just as she's about to touch it, takes a second to read the message scrawled on the inside of the jacket.

_Dinner, next weekend. Just us.  
>Yes  No / I'm too busy Castle ask me again later /_

She swallows.

He's asking her to dinner.

Asking her on a date?

Who knows?

Probably is.

But he's doing it subtly, not forcing her into a direct conversation about dinner in front of everyone else.

He's written her a note like a sixth grader, with little tick boxes for her response. So all she has to do it make a mark on the cardboard and slide it back to him.

She swallows again. But other than that, she stops moving, stops breathing, stops thinking.

She wants to meet his gaze, but she can't not here, not under the ever-observant gaze of her colleagues, all trained to notice things, all keen to gossip and tease.

She makes the decision then that she'll do it later, answer him later.

She folds it in half and slips it into the pocket of her slacks. It doesn't have a weight like the chocolate, but it certainly has sharp corners. She won't be forgetting that's in there, even as she sits at her desk, every time she leans forward she will be reminded.

"Take as long as you need," he says softly, a promise, a soft assurance. He'll wait.

She just flicks her eyes to him briefly, gives half a nod, a subtle shift in her head starting from her chin. She knows he understands so she buries herself in the paperwork again. Let's herself forget for a second what's happening.

* * *

><p>Castle smiles when she returns from an unusually long trip to the bathroom with two more cups. He should have known she'd get another cup, the only way to respond. Sneaky little messages hidden in the shadows of lids, on the base of cups, wrapped just beneath the rim. It doesn't matter, he's used to this. She's used to this.<p>

That's how he'd know this would be the best way to ask, the only way to ask. Especially in such a public place. So it only fits that her response is the same, subtle and controlled, carefully concealed.

He doesn't miss the fact she still has the corrugated piece of cardboard from her earlier cup in her pocket. He'd expected her to slip that one over this cup.

He just watches as she continues to drink her cup, settling herself back into her paperwork, stealing glances at him every-so-often, then glaring when she finds him still watching. It's like she can feel his eyes on her. She probably can. He knows when she's watching him, those rare times he's not already watching her.

They're insane.

"You going to drink that?" she mocks after a moment as he toys with the cup.

He swallows. She's mocking him, deliberately restarting their previous conversation.

"Yeah I am actually," he says with a confidence he's not really feeling, an attitude he can't muster.

She just scoffs softly at him and goes back to her paperwork, but he doesn't miss the slight roll of her eyes as she turns away from him, drinking deeply from her own cup.

He leans forward in the chair, sliding the cup forward on the desk, then leaning his body back. a thinly veiled attempt to get a better view of its sides, its lid. Any place she might have responded. But she's not stupid, she knows he'd look in the obvious places.

But he also knows she wouldn't have even considered putting it anywhere other than the inside of the cardboard. And he can't get until that until later.

* * *

><p>She doesn't bother to watch him toy with the cup, search for her answer. She knows he will, she knows how long it will take him to find it and she also knows that once he does he won't say anything. She is finally making some headway on the paper trail when he clears his throat. She startles a little out of her ravine as he pokes her elbow.<p>

She hums in a 'give me a sec' kind of way before she sees movement in the corner of her eye. He's stealing her empty cup from her hunched form. She turns and gives him a smile in thanks and wants to laugh at his expression. He looks like the cat who got the canary.

She realises, in a way, he kind of has.

She rolls her eyes at him instead and eases back a second so he can grab her cup and toss it in the wastebasket at his feet. She forces herself back to the paperwork, she's almost completed the circle, she can tell. It's just an instinct but she doesn't doubt it. She's done this enough times to know she's about to catch a break. So the possibility of cramming around the table in the break room with her team, eating out of a bunch of Chinese take-out containers, as she fills them in on the path and lets them debate with her their plan of attack for the next day is oddly appealing.

He'll still look like the cat who got the canary then too. She just hopes he can contain himself if either of the guys get suspicious. She doesn't doubt it. she's still quivering at the thought herself so she can't imagine what he's feeling. She's finally agreed to some forward movement in this tangled dance. She doesn't think its too serious, he did ask her like a sixth grader so he can't be intending to take huge leaps. But just asking is a leap enough.

She flicks her eyes at him as she crams her highlighter into the drawer, stacking up the papers.

"Chinese?" he asks her, dangling his phone for her to see he's ready to order.

She nods, flicks her head to the others and begins to go over the path again quickly, check she hasn't missed something and refresh her mind.

Except her mind becomes fixed on one thing, he's basically just verbalised her thoughts. Like he's inside her head, reading everything. She flicks a gaze at him as he hunches over speaking to Ryan and Esposito about their selections.

Then it hits her. He never even bothered to ask what she wanted.

He really is inside her head.

He just hopes he hadn't heard her internal monologue as he drank the coffee she gave him. Her monologue as she repeated the mantra of 'yes' and considered all their options, all likely outcomes. All the reasons why and why not.

But 'no' had never been an option. Even if 'yes' is still terrifying, she is way past saying no. As for the too busy option, she'd considered it, but it was a thin excuse. They both know she would find the time, stall a case and go home early one night if it came to it.

He wouldn't ask her to, but she'd want to.

Then she realises. Now she's smiling like the damn cat who got the canary. Worse yet, she's still watching him hunched over the desk, talking on the phone now.

She needs to focus, now.


	6. February 6th

**6th February**

When Castle offers to drive her home, staying atypically late while she finished off all the paper work, she doesn't refuse. It has been a long couple of days dredging through all the paperwork related to the case, even interrogations had been tiring – having to gently lead in that they knew the whole story, that she herself had followed its winding, twisted tail back to their guy. He'd looked shocked as she gave him the final few twists, a few sneaky deviations, to point them at other colleagues, friends and even a relative then twisted it to show it only made all paths lead to himself his shoulders slumped and she knew she had him, she had her confession.

"It's too late for you to get on the subway," he informs her. Then he smiles, knowing she's already agreed. He'd already had an argument prepared.

"My gun and badge kind of make that a pointless argument, Castle," she offers her own argument. Plus she's done it enough times before to recognise some of the regulars, knows which cars they sit in, which to avoid. But he probably doesn't realise that, and even if he does he won't dare vocalise it.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. It's true, with her armed everyone else should be the ones concerned for their safety. But possessing a gun, a concealed weapon, won't protect her from everything. But he can't tell her that. He cannot share his fears for her safety, his concern for her well-being in the way she travels to work. She would not like to know he's been concerned for years, but wouldn't say anything, couldn't say anything. But now he realises she'll let him, on nights like this when they've been here since seven and worked a solid twelve hours, she won't argue. Not anymore.

He decides honesty is his best option.

"I don't want you riding this late, especially when I'm still here to drop you home," he offers it quietly, as though the detectives who usually occupy the surrounding desks are leaning over, listening to his every word. What he doesn't offer her is that he would leave his loft to drop her home. He would cross state lines to drop her home. But he doesn't say that, that is certainly too much. But he suspects she would have some inkling, that she would not consider it a wild assumption with no truth or substance.

She just nods and continues to gather her things.

She smiles that tight-lipped smile as she sinks her hands into her pockets, depositing her phone and checking for her keys, shoving her wallet into her back pocket.

He exhales, audibly and realises she didn't miss it. She didn't miss that little sigh. Normally the hum of the bullpen, the sound of business, phones and computers and conversation drown out such noises. But not tonight. Every other person has left. The night team were called to a scene almost as soon as they arrived. The only other person on the floor with them is nestled over in the corner, asleep against his desk, surrounded by a stack of paper. At least no one is there to bear witness.

"No witty little gift today, Castle?" she asks him as they step into the elevator and she buries her hands into her pockets, remembering. Sticking her hands into her pockets probably won't be the same. Her hands twitch every time she comes into contact with her keys, like she's expecting something else. Realistically she knows he wouldn't use the same hiding place twice. He would be well-versed in the protocols of hide-and-seek.

She shouldn't be asking. This is the first time she's even vocalised this. The first time either of them have vocalised it. The first time either have made any mention at all of what he's been doing, even in passing it hasn't been discussed.

The way he looks across at her, darting his eyes to her makes her instantly suspicious. She missed it.

Damn it.

She'd thought she had been so vigilant with it, keeping her eye out, she'd even scanned the coffee he'd brought in this morning for any sign of something. But there had been nothing. And he'd been at her side all day so he would have seen her find it.

He knows she hasn't got it yet.

'"I already gave it to you," he says softly, vocalising her exact thoughts, again. It must be the fifth time today. And that doesn't even include when he'd deduced she needed another hit of caffeine. If ushc realisations are included the number would be approaching fifteen, if not surpassing it.

Maybe she really is addicted to coffee. She knows it's not unusual, but it doesn't make it any healthier.

At least she'd eaten meals along with it though, absorbing some of it so her blood composition wasn't purely caffeinated.

She's stalling, deviating from the point, trying to school her features into impassion and force a response from her mouth that isn't some horrid collection of what, where, when and how's.

She has a feeling it's not really working, so gives up trying.

"When?" she asks softly, turning to face him in the elevator, leaning her shoulder against the elevator wall instead of her back so she can watch him, study his expression for any hint. But he won't give anything away, at least not enough for her to understand. It isn't an excuse to just watch him. Really, it's not.

She's not even fooling herself.

But she's too flabbergasted, too off-balance to care. She's staring at his shoulder as she retraces the day, remembers every coffee, every smartarse comment, every time he's even spoken but there was nothing. He didn't say or do anything, so what can he possibly mean.

He just smiles at her, chuckles quietly to himself as she looks up from her intent examination of his deltoid, the lint on his coat or maybe just the breadth of it. She doesn't even realise he's basically laughing she's so focused on retracing the day, their day, every movement and word that has occurred.

"This morning," he answers, smiling widely and openly chuckling as the furrow of her brow deepens.

"What?" she asks almost stupidly. He knows she has made the leap at least somewhere in herself but she hasn't consciously realised yet that it was before he arrived at the precinct.

"But you… You came in like twenty minutes after I did. I told you to get moving." He sees it. The moment she realises he can see it physically cross her face. She sent him a text checking he was coming in, telling him she was on her way now and that, from their plan the previous evening, they would be headed out almost immediately – if he wanted in on it, he better roll out of bed.

She had given him his opportunity to place the gift.

He watches her swallow, the rise and fall of her throat shows how fearful she is, but the defiance of her jaw makes him shudder as he watches her, studies, committing every response to memory. He's never really watched her respond to these before, sure he was there when she discovered that silver heart, he had to have been, but her back was to him and she didn't let on, all day. The cupcake was before she realised what this was, how serious this was. Maybe she hasn't realised just how serious this is. But now she's brought it up he doesn't care, it means she's been intrigued, snared by his trap.

He hadn't even been planning to tell her about this one, just content to let her walk into her apartment; relax after what he knew would be a horrible day to find it. But she brought it up.

She played the card so he raised the stakes. How could he not have seized the opportunity to watch her find out about a gift? A gift she can't even respond to properly because it's not with him right now, nor is it with her.

The elevator doors open and he steps forward, expecting her to follow, but she doesn't. It's like she's rooted to the spot.

"Kate?" he asks softly, prodding her into movement.

She looks up at him, eyes a little wide, shocked. But she does follow, falls into step beside him as they head through the foyer and out onto the street into the cold.

He gives her until they've climbed into the car, give her a couple of minutes to process, give her a couple of blocks to clear her head. Plus he's content to walk with her in silence.

"I left it in your apartment." He speaks softly to her as she slides into the passenger seat beside him, quickly closing the door and wrapping herself in the security of her seatbelt. It doesn't escape his notice that she crams her hands back in her pockets, whether its habit or warmth or security he doesn't know.

"Why?" Her question isn't unreasonable but it is so quiet he barely hears her. He turns down the radio a touch, it hadn't been loud but just above conversations in whispers.

"Not really suitable for the precinct. It's a little too… personal." He doesn't have to turn back and glance at her to know she's nodding as he turns on the car, shifting it into gear. She's confused but she is grateful. He knows once she finds it she will certainly be grateful. "Plus I had to check on the cactus. Those things need watering you know." He has to keep it lighter if she's going to gain control of her thoughts. He hopes he hasn't crossed some boundary by going into her apartment, but that doesn't look like what she's shocked about. He's had a key for quite a while now, in case of emergencies, since her apartment blew up actually, since she found her new place. But he's never used it.

He glances at her, catches the tail end of her eye-roll. "Castle, I know how to look after a plant."

To anyone else it would sound like she was lividly mad, steeling herself and biting her response back at him. But he recognises that tone from other times. Times she's been trying to catch-up, force her mouth to say words her mind hasn't computed yet, hasn't fully understood. She's just processing. If she was mad he would have faced a barrage of accusations or an onslaught of insults.

But he hadn't.

"I know but I had to check. For my own peace of mind." He doesn't mention he wanted to check she had actually accepted the gift. It was a little different to coffee-beans, cupcakes and chocolate hearts, however laced with meaning they may be, all she has to do is pop them into her mouth, force herself to chew and swallow. They can be forgotten, erased like they never happened. He had to check the cactus hadn't suffered a similar fate. He needed to know she could deal with the reminder, if it hadn't been there he would have reconsidered his next gift. A far more daring leap forwards that would rattle her a little.

When he'd brought the cactus, and considered she would keep it, he'd only considered three places she would put it. No four, there had been a fourth.

On her bookshelf nestled between some of her books, just out of sight unless you stopped to stare at it. He'd noticed the blaring gaps in her collection in the past, wondered why she didn't fill them with more books or even trinkets. The next, was her kitchen table or on counter, central so it would be seen. He knew it had been a less likely option, but it could then be passed off as generic then, something she'd just picked up one day on a whim. He thought she might have put it in her study, out of sight, guarded by an extra wall, an extra door and hidden away with many other things. Then he realised that would be quite poetic, something he would include in his books as a literary reference to her mother's case and her inabilities to let herself go, to put him away on a shelf and deal with it when she had the spare time, as she was ready. He hadn't even considered she'd have it in her bedroom, it had been the last room he'd searched, he'd even scanned the bathroom, just in case, ruling out every other possibility before reaching the inevitable conclusion – there was nowhere else.

She's been silent for so long he realises she's got her eyes narrowed in a threat, staring straight ahead out the windscreen at the road ahead, more focus than if she herself was driving. Either she is blocking it out and forcing herself to focus on the passing pavement, the cars moving in the opposite direction, or she is so deep in thought that she doesn't even know which way she's looking, what she's looking at or which direction is up and which is down.

The light ahead changes in front of him. He eases to a stop and leans across, nudging her elbow gently. "You in there?" he asks gently.

He watches her jolt into awareness; clearly her attention had not been fixed on the road, not on distraction. He smiles.

"Sorry," he offers softly.

She shakes her head, turns to face him, leaning back in the seat, a shoulder against the window behind her and one pressed deep into the soft leather of the seat.

He's relieved to see the tight smile gracing her features, like she knows she's been staring off into space and doesn't mind being brought back to reality, back out of the possibilities. He wonders what she was considering, so deep in thought.

"Are you going to drive", Castle?" Now it's her turn to challenge him, return a little normalcy.

He quickly turns back to the road, already pressing down on the accelerator, shifting the car forwards.

.

He touches her hand as she tells him she'll see him tomorrow sometime, just skimming his fingertips over the back of her hand as she unclicks the seatbelt. She suppresses the shiver which surges through her body. He is getting bolder and while it is terrifying, it isn't by any means a bad thing. She realises now she's bolder too. Hell she asked him, almost too expectantly, about the gift.

"Until tomorrow," he says softly as she lets herself slide from the SUV onto the pavement. She fights the shiver again, the promise, the heavy meaning that statement now carries.

"Night, Castle," she manages. A body will drop and they'll get a call, it'll just be a few specifics that impact upon how long she has to wait.

He returns her tight smile with one of his own, much wider more open. She can see from the glint in his eye he's nervous, kind of excited for her to go upstairs and discover it. She has to wonder if he would have had that same look if he hadn't just given away the fact he's been upstairs, in her apartment without her, depositing a gift somewhere in her apartment. She suspects he would have.

She doesn't wait for him to drive away before she heads inside, but she does register the noise of his SUV as he accelerates up the street. She relaxes as she steps inside the elevator, conveniently waiting on the bottom floor.

She forces herself to relax as it climbs the few floors to her apartment, holds her breath as she moves across the hall to her door. She turns the key and shift the door forwards in the frame, takes another deep breath and braces herself against whatever this is going to be.

She's not too concerned it will be horrifying or startlingly or too much too soon, but still. It is unknown. A suspect lurking in the shadows, or possibly out in the open, equally as terrifying, it doesn't matter. She doesn't spy it as she slowly opens the door, scanning everything as it is revealed to her, searching for some hint of it.

He'd said it was too personal for the precinct.

What the hell was it?

And how far into her apartment had he gone. She couldn't see anything on the coffee table, or on the table.

Then it strikes her. Just as she's shrugging off her coat, slipping the shoulders into the corners of the hanger.

He said he had checked on the cactus.

She slams the hanger back on the rack, it wouldn't do her coat any harm being half dangling from it. It wasn't like it was on the floor – there are enough coats in that closet that it will be held steadfast between them.

She huffs out a breath as she catches sight of it on her bed. It is most certainly not an appropriate gift to deliver to the precinct. That doesn't mean she would encourage him to barge into her home, he could have at least told her he was coming.

But that's not his plan.

Whatever his plan is, it doesn't involve informing her of his next move.

A small teddy bear, settled against the pillow on other side of the bed, it's legs slipped beneath the covers like its lying in the bed waiting for her.

It was cute sure.

But she was a grown woman, why would he give her a teddy bear?

Why would he slide it beneath the sheets?

There has to be an explanation. He hadn't offered one in the car, but he also hadn't even been planning on telling her there was a gift today. That wasn't how this worked.

So there has to be a note or something.

She kneels on the bed, regarding the bear a little wearily. But it's just a stereotypical teddy, light tan fur and extremely soft – a child would love it, cuddle up with it and go to sleep. Then she realises that has to be the message. What other message could there possibly be?

It's position and his comment about it being a little more personal, glare at her now, defiant and apparent.

That had to be his message. There were just no other plausible options, at least not ones in the realm of possibility.

But she needed proof, confirmation.

She scans the area surrounding the bear, finding nothing to accompany it. Nothing on the bedside either. Maybe there isn't supposed to be a message, not an actual hand-written piece of paper.

Then her phone goes off in her pocket and she jumps, her whole body jerking as she slides off and stands, her hands already moving to her pocket.

_With the cactus,_ is all he's written. Damn it how does he do that, how would he know just the right moment to prod her in the right direction, guide her in his search, seek out an excuse to speak to her again, make himself a part of the discovery.

Sure enough, a small piece of paper is in front of the cactus, holding itself upright like a place card at a dinner party, it's message apparent on the face.

She can't see it, she's too far away to read his black scrawl.

_Just some company_

She gives half a chuckle, filling the silence of the room, breaking the tension she herself created within herself, about the gift, about its meaning and then what was going to be written in his message, on the card and on her phone.

She flattens the paper, nestling it under the saucer of the cactus, just in view but mostly out of sight.

She wonders if he noticed the others beneath it, wonders if that is why he chose to set the card over here and not on the bedside. Who knows how his mind works, he certainly hadn't given anything away about this. When he said he'd been in her apartment she hadn't even thought about the fact he would have been in her bedroom, beside her bed, at her dresser. Not even when he mentioned the cactus.

She realises she missed a golden opportunity to give him a decent thwack.

But she doesn't want to.

She doesn't mind that he's been in here, granted, she would have liked to have been aware he was planning an uninvited visit. But that would have ruined it.

He couldn't leave a bear nestled between the covers of her bed and the pillow, as a gesture meaning everything she isn't letting herself consider.

She responds to his message quickly before she sets the phone on the dresser to change.

_She better not snore,_ its short enough that he'll know, but doesn't give much away.

Just as she's tugging the pyjama bottoms up over her hips her phone slides across the wood in a violent protest, chirping once indicating she doesn't have to speak into it. Another message, a response.

_You better check his name tag, _is all he's written.

She furrows. Then realises, bears like this, those ones from gift shops given to small children, are generally named.

She slides beneath the cool sheets reaching and slipping the bear from between its share of the sheets, which stay noticeably upright, caught in its shape, it it's form is still there. Looks like Castle tucked it in.

She shakes the mental image from her mind as flips the bear, leaving him balancing him on his head as she seeks out the tag.

_Alex? _she types quickly. _Gender neutral. I say female._ She isn't going to say anything at all about its name or his own. Or anything that stupid psychic said.

_If you insist_, his response comes back so instantaneously she hasn't even clicked out of their conversation or locked the device.

She's clicked to respond, gotten half way through saying that she does insist, when it goes off again. She flicks her attention to the other message, agreeing to save the draft.

_Until tomorrow. PS – no snoring in my presence_, she reads it and clenches her fist around the bear, burying her fingers deep into the soft fur, contorting the stuffing beneath her fingers.

She reads it again, just to be sure. _In his presence_, she wasn't mistaken. What does he mean? She sets the bear back in the sheets, tonight she'll indulge it, indulge him.

She decides she can't form a coherent response to his message, she can't push the joke further, make another suggestion. Not tonight, but soon.

Admitting to sleeping beside it, him joking like its already shared his bed is enough for tonight.

It is enough of a step forward for it to be significant, to prove to him she isn't discontent with his intrusion into her bedroom, into her apartment and that she isn't discontent with these intrusions into her personal space, into that area she's closed off from so many people. The area she's starting to want to let him into.

He is after all standing on the edge, shifting loose its crumbling façade.

Next weekend she is suspecting he'll completely drop himself in, either jump down or wait for her to extend a ladder. But she's certain he'll find his way off the top and never let her forget he's there, inside.

What she's not certain of is how long she will keep holding the ladder in her hands. How long can she wait before she takes a final few steps and lets him in. He's so close now that he may not even have to wait that long.

She suspects he has no idea how close he truly is.


	7. February 7th

**7th February**

She calls that morning not long after his mother and Alexis have headed out for the day, to school and a meeting he never got the location of. When he sees her caller-ID no witty greeting springs to mind immediately, quite unusual. But given the fact his mind is being bombarded, once again, with images of her curled up in her bed, ready do nothing more than sleep, makes normal thought impossible. So impossible in fact he almost lets the cell ring out, until he's jolted from his wandering mind by the fourth vibration, by the fact it is teetering very close to the voicemail threshold.

"Hey," is all he could manage. He knows his smile is probably as evident to her as it is to himself.

She pauses before she says anything in response. But when she drops her own "hey," not too soft and not the least bit business-like, he has to swallow, bite his own tongue. He's pretty sure she's smiling too. But he's snapped out of it, tuned in suddenly to the reason for her call.

"We got a body?" he asks, still a little too excited at the prospect. But now the excitement is as much about seeing her as it is seeing what grotesque and morbid things the people of New York City have done to one another.

"Yeah," she says immediately, like she's defending herself, making sure he knows she does have a reason to call. But she doesn't always need a reason. More often now he calls her for no reason, generally while she's at work, bugging her when he knows she's there and no case has dropped. It does remind him of the bank hold-up, but he forges on, it's just more reason to call. Check she's okay, happy to find out she's as bored by her paperwork as he is by the cursor blinking silently on his screen, taunting him. Inspiration always strikes though, triggered by something she says or does. It doesn't matter. But when she calls back later with a case, he doesn't even let her say anything, just tells her he'll be downstairs in ten minutes, maybe five if she's already in the car. She does that now, already on her way when she dials. Once she was even already out the front, out to lunch had been her excuse. He'd known she'd probably been driving mindlessly, filling time, when dispatch called and had been most of the way to his loft already.

He hears her swallow through the phone, probably to give herself a moment, bide herself some time. He doesn't mind, he'd needed the second to get lost in his own thoughts, memories of the many times they've had this conversation and all its variations, its evolution. "I think you'll like this one. It's quite… unusual." She doesn't offer anything else and he doesn't mind. A little more mystery surrounding their day can't do any harm. He'll let her be the one shrouding their morning with mystery. He doesn't plan to give her today's gift until much later in the day. It's still slipped into his pocket though, waiting for its moment.

* * *

><p>She sets the phone back in its cradle, the hard plastic giving an audible thud even despite her lack of force. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the scene she's about to face. Ryan and Esposito, thankfully, went ahead while she called Castle, electing not to use her cell. It isn't because she needs a minute to herself before the scene, a second to pull a veil over her emotions so she can focus on killers not victims. While that does get to her, that particular mask goes on in the car, steeled every mile that she'll travel, reinforced by every cop she spies on her way across the scene as she makes her way to the body. It's that she needs to wipe the stupid smirk off her face and focus, throw a veil over a different set of emotions. Their victim needs her to focus. If his light tone is anything to go by, he is as unfocused as she is. She'll have to ground herself before she sees him, otherwise she'll end up tilted off centre for the rest of the day.<p>

* * *

><p>When he comes back with yet another cup of coffee to find her deep in conversation on the phone, pulling records or tracking a suspect he isn't sure, doesn't matter. This case has so many twists and turns he's almost given up keeping track of who exactly Beckett, Esposito and Ryan are looking into at a particular moment in time. The other two are both on the phone, he'd received a nod of thanks as he set their coffees in front of them a minute before, then returned to the break room for theirs.<p>

She stops writing to smile at him, only very briefly flicking her eyes up to meet his own.

"Yeah," she says into the phone, her eyes darting back to the note pad. She's coloured in the corner whilst on hold, or perhaps while the person on the other end got to the point. It doesn't matter. He's never noticed before. And he always notices, especially when it comes to her.

He settles back into his seat, mindful of her gift in his coat pocket, dangling somewhere behind him. Every time he moves he can hear it, sometimes he swears she's heard it too when she looks across at him, he holds his breath until she speaks after extremely long pauses, milliseconds that stretch on for minutes. She hasn't noticed.

Why would she notice a crinkle of plastic in his pocket?

* * *

><p>She strides out of the interrogation room, decidedly leaving their suspect to consider his options – tell her the truth, confess to everything he's done and earn himself a deal by dobbing in his partner, his co-conspirator, or he could face the full force of the accusations, they had enough evidence to pin him down as the ringleader but he didn't seem like the type.<p>

"I give him half an hour before that lawyer's calling us back, ready to roll," Esposito offers as they fall into step beside her, headed back across to their desks.

"Yeah we'll see." She's not entirely convinced, he could very well be the ringleader about to take the offer and earn himself a lesser sentence, handing his sidekick a possible life sentence, who knew. At this stage they just needed the other name, then the logistics of who was who and what exactly each had done, which part they had played, would all, hopefully, come to light.

The Castle is beside them all. "Pizza? Chinese? Indian? Thai?" He's offering dinner suggestions. Is it really that late already? She knew they'd been at this for hours, how could she not? But she figured it was only late afternoon not early evening.

It's an onslaught of options and she doesn't care. She just shrugs and forges ahead to her desk, leaving them to decide. She has work to do, whatever the choice she'll eat something. Something will be ordered with her in mind.

She sees Castle nod to the others and part with them as they slide into their own desk chairs, already getting back to work. She's already started making notes about the interrogation, what they learnt and where it could take them, what she'll have to remember so when she goes to court and has to answer to a prosecutor and a defence attorney she has all the answers lined up, neat rows, no gaps. She won't be the reason these guys walk.

When her desk phone rings a short time later, she's curt, they've disrupted quite a crucial moment. Her attention isn't on the caller.

"Beckett."

"There is a delivery down here for Mr-"

"He's on his way," she responds. "Thanks." She hangs up the phone and Castle has already stood, headed downstairs to grab the pizza having taken.

Ryan slides back and drops his and Esposito's parts of the bill on her desk, giving her a knowing look. She rolls her eyes and drops her own share, matching the others.

He'll refuse it, vehemently, she knows that. But they'll try.

She knows when he's stepped off the elevator. Esposito and Ryan have both turned to face her, seeking permission to eat right away, like small children asking their parents if they can have a lolly.

She rolls her eyes at them, but continues to work for a second. She blindly gathers the wad of notes in her fist as she finishes her sentence, while all three men hurry into the break room, basically jostling for first position like children rushing to lunch.

She supposes they are.

She arches her back when she stands, flicks her eyes to the break room as she does then shows the wad of bills into his coat pocket. It's the only way she's ever found him to accept money from them. He won't take it from her in person, no matter how insistent she is, no matter what threat she makes.

* * *

><p>He's gone to get another coffee for her, they still haven't heard back from their suspect and his lawyer, still seemingly in intense discussion in the interrogation room. Esposito had gone and knocked on the door, asking if they wanted a drink or anything, forcing them to realise they were keeping an eye on them, waiting on them. To reinforce the fact the team were running this deal not he and his lawyer. Who knew what they were discussing but it was beginning to draw out. The suspect, by the looks of things, had finished talking and his lawyer was speaking, long drawn out speeches emphasised with his hand and a dangling pen, previously poised taking notes at each facet of the deal she offered. This guy was good.<p>

She was better. Her whole team was better.

She watched as Esposito returned, sitting heavily in his chair, shaking his head. They still weren't close to finished. This lawyer was trying to make them sweat, earning his surely ridiculous hourly rate as he did so.

She shrugged as she returned to her work, a silent urge for him to do the same.

"Still nothing?" Castle asks as he sits down, setting her coffee on the desk beside her.

She shakes her head, leans back in her chair, wrapping both hands around the mug, drawing in its heat for a second, enjoying the scald it still gives her tongue when she takes a large gulp.

"What?" she asks him as she sets the mug on the desk again as she realises he's regarding her cautiously, like he wants to say something.

"I forgot something," he says, cringing slightly, standing and flicking his head like he's beckoning to follow him to the break room.

What? "Castle, its-" she starts. But stops, he's already walking away. He hasn't forgotten anything. He wouldn't forget anything. He's known how to make her coffee for as long as she can remember, basically from day one. Well the first day he wasn't a suspect or taking joy in annoying the crap out of her. More like the first day he prodded Montgomery into letting him into the department.

He's up to something, barely concealing it today. She doesn't mind, it gets it out of the way.

She realises just as he slides through the door that she's been left behind. She regards Ryan and Esposito quickly, glancing at the interrogation room for a second before she gathers her cup and follows him. The case can wait for one minute. It's not like she's leaving the building. It won't fall down completely if it doesn't have her full attention. The guys are more than capable of continuing.

She's ignoring her curiosity about why today is different, why he's bothering to do this face-to-face. She wants to question him as she slips into the room, but her eyes can't stop studying his stance long enough to let her mouth speak. Leaning against the counter, much more relaxed than she feels, a slight hunch is his shoulders suggesting maybe he's forcing an act. Then she sees him flick his eyes to the open door behind her.

Curious, she closes it.

Now that won't look at all suspicious. As if everyone in this precinct needs more reason, more ammunition, more evidence to acknowledge the fact something is happening between them. Granted the guys out in the bullpen have been niggling at that issue for years. The jibes which would surely follow this trail of gifts would put anything from the past to shame.

* * *

><p>If she doesn't move out of the doorway someone's going to get very suspicious. It is a gamble as it is that no one will follow them in seeking a coffee or the microwave. If she just comes over he can offer the small item with the crinkling plastic to her and leave her with it, give her a second to comprehend. This hadn't been how he planned to give this particular gift, but he hasn't got any other option now.<p>

Then she's at his side, leaning against the countertop eyeing him curiously, flicking her gaze to the fist she's noticed closed at his side.

"I didn't forget anything," he offers softly, watching as she nods, trying so hard to keep her face neutral but he sees the way her eyes flick to the corner, like they're about to roll and she's fighting the urge.

"I know," she shrugs, the corner of her mouth twitching as her feet suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room.

"The guys didn't want Chinese," he says softly. "So my plan kind-of went downhill." He opens his fist to reveal it to her, watches as she slowly flicks her eyes from her feet to him, carefully avoiding his hand like she's gauging his reaction to the gift, studying him for what it is before she herself finds out. It makes him want to crowd even closer to her, then she swallows. He can't help but urge her to look at it, nudging her elbow with the back of his hand as a silent coax.

He watches her sigh and slowly cast her eyes downwards, snail's pace but the smile that slides across her lips when she sees it makes the wait worth it, the risk of being present when she receives the gift.

Sure, he gave her the cupcake in person, but that seems like so long ago now. And that was different. Then it was just slightly atypical, just something other than a bear claw that he placed on her desk. Now it's a whole different ballgame, there is a pending date she has agreed to.

"You were going to give this to me in front of those two? Are you crazy?" she asks. Moving her eyes from the fortune cookie in his hand to his eyes, a little panicked but he can see the past her poker face. Right now in this moment, he can see the bubble of excitement she's fighting so hard to contain. He wishes she wouldn't bother. He wants to see her so open, have a hard edge cut away, show her raw. He's seen it more than once before, and he doesn't miss that right now, her tough exterior is slipping.

"They would've been distracted," he shrugs, pushing his thoughts about her aside as she flicks her eyes back to the hand he's still holding in front of her.

He watches her shift slightly, uncross her arms and adjust the way her weight is pressing against the counter, a small shuffle of her feet leading the slight movement. He doesn't move, let's her shift and then take it from his hand, clenching it in her fist with a rumple of plastic.

He swipes a finger over a closed knuckle, nods once and shifts his own weight, moving away, forcing himself to head back out into the bullpen and let her have a minute if she needs it.

"I'll let you, uh…" He fumbles over the words, decides its best just to stop talking. He doesn't know what he's leaving her to do. He knows with certainty she won't throw it away, she'd be too intrigued to just discard it without a second thought. But he's not sure that she'll open it and read it here.

"You don't have to leave, Castle," she says softly, a little defiant. She also doesn't bother to avoid rolling her eyes at him as she stays settled against the corner of the counter.

He doesn't bother to conceal his shock as he flicks his eyes up to hers. But she's not watching him, her focus has shifted to the wrapper in her hand, he can hear her opening it so he follows her line of sight, just catching her curious expression as she tears the wrapper and slips the hard biscuit free.

He has to force himself to breathe and blink as she snaps it in half. He notices she doesn't bother to brush the crumbs from her stomach, a stark contrast to the dark material.

He watches her slip the note into her fist then crush it so it isn't within her view, all with one swift hand movement.

"Castle?" she chuckles softly. It breaks him out of his reverie. She's happy and content. And offering him half the cookie while he stares at her clenched fist and the crumbs on her shirt.

He gives her half a smile in thanks and raises his eyebrows, hoping he has some kind of glint in his eye to show he's noticed and that he's feeling the same.

She just smiles and flicks her eyes to the closed door, before giving a soft huff as she expels the air from her lungs, seemingly removing her weight from the counter with that force.

He can't help but blink for a few seconds as she folds her arms across her chest, breaking the hold only to open the door.

"You just going to stand in here all night?" she asks, not bothering to look back over her shoulder as she lets the door fall open, recrossing her arms without pause and moving away. "Or are you coming with?" There is a challenge in her voice, a different hint of defiance.

* * *

><p>She doesn't bother to turn to see if he's following her. She knows even if he isn't in this second, he won't be too far behind. Plus it gives her a chance to steal glances at this fortune. She certainly wasn't going to read it in front of him, but now, with her back to him, she feels safe enough.<p>

The words are typed neatly across the small piece of paper, typical font for them, but she knows he has either had it made specifically or ordered from a selection. Once she reads the message, 'There are many new opportunities being presented to you each day' she isn't able to decide either way. It doesn't matter though, it's his handwritten scrawl that tells the whole story.

_Take one_, is all the cursive reads. But its message is more than blaringly obvious.

She bites her bottom lip to keep from reacting, forces the small piece of paper back into the tight ball of her fist before sticking it into the pocket of her pants. She can spend time later deducing exactly which opportunities she should be taking later. But right now, Esposito and Ryan are motioning her over to the interrogation room. Maybe it's both of them, she isn't going to check if Castle's following as she moves around a desk and down the clear path towards the room.

"We've got work to do," he mutters, touching the small of her back, startling her, catching her so off-guard that she had almost swung a fist back at him in response. But she's caught herself, realising it's just him and just settles for pressing the crumpled paper deeper into her skin. She might not be able to comprehend his advice right now, but she knows what it means. He wants her to be the one to take the step forward. Not because he doesn't want to do it himself, but it's a sign of respect, for her to know, when she's ready, he's waiting.

She'll have to wait until tomorrow to find which opportunity he'll present to her, or even the next day.

Who knows?

Anything is possible.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know its a little later than normal but I got distracted by The Blue Butterfly, can you blame me?**


	8. February 8th

**8th February**

It's been a horrid morning. A game of cat and mouse between their suspects, each rolling on the other with something more shocking, more incriminating than the last piece of information offered. The lawyers looked quite smug as Beckett and Esposito moved between rooms. Castle and Ryan had been instructed to stay in a viewing room each, report back to them before they changed rooms. Then Castle had stepped forward, announced to them it wasn't working and strode across to the other viewing room, finding Ryan looking as stoic as he feels, trying to understand.

Ryan hadn't taken any encouragement to leave the room, form a new strategy.

They all been tossing theories around, moving things on the board, circling them, everything now beginning to become clear, red and blue marker pointing to only one possible conclusion. But the others hadn't seen what was apparently blaringly obvious to Castle.

"They're partners," he offered the detectives, their backs to him as the examined the board again, taking pause from a theory that maybe the lead had changed hands.

All of them had turned to face him and he knew they were convinced.

"Everything is equal. It's like they both took part in every step of the process."

He watches Kate nod, and flick her eyes back to the board. Esposito and Ryan keep watching him, waiting for something else he assumes. But he hasn't got anything else to offer, and it seems Beckett has her own plan. She's grabbed something, a picture, and it headed for the rooms. He follows, but not before he slides today's gift along the desk, nestling it amongst papers. There are others he's been ferreting away all morning, he slipped two into the pocket of her coat, put one beside her keys in the drawer, one's tucked behind the corner of her keyboard so when she draws it closer later, she'll expose it. But he has to stop thinking about tiny candy hearts for now and focus on this interrogation. To crack these guys they need to be more in sync than they are.

* * *

><p>They've got their answers, finally. He's been watching her shuffle papers, organising the paperwork process for a few minutes when he sees her wrap her fingers are the pile closest to him, the pile with a heart, he takes his leave.<p>

"Coffee?" he asks, leaning over and snagging her mug, giving her a quick smile before heading off to the break room. He doesn't bother to wait for her answer. Why would he. She's never said no.

When he sets the mug down in front of her she smiles her thanks, slides the orange confection to the slide of her mouth. He doesn't miss the quick glimpse of the candy.

He doesn't know if it was intentional or not, but he knows she's found it. She's found 'Me&You', he can tell by the colour. A simple one, a safe one.

But then she's settling into her desk again and he knows it won't be long before she finds the next one.

It doesn't take long, barely a minute. It's as soon as he forced himself to seem impassive, settled into his game, just after he hit 'play' on the opening screen he heard her stop shuffling about. He flicks his eyes up to watch her eyeing the green candy curiously. Obviously not suspecting another.

But he knows this message is appropriate because she's smiling again. 'You Found Me' gets clenched in her fist as she flicks her eyes to him. He just shrugs and goes back to his game, flicking his eyes back to her to watch her slide it into her mouth with her thumb.

* * *

><p>Once again she's almost completely alone in the silence of the bullpen. Castle is half asleep in the chair beside her, she isn't sure what he's doing on his phone but he hasn't stopped typing for almost an hour. She suspects he's making notes, planning out some scene or chapter she won't ask about. She is curious though.<p>

She'd tried to send him home, multiple times. Not even a phone call from his daughter had prompted his departure today. She's suspicious she is the reason he's skipped out on dinner and a movie with his daughter but she can't say anything. How does she say something to a man whose been dropping candy hearts on her desk all day?

Whatever he's doing, he's sticking around for a reason.

But he can't possibly be, waiting for her to find another candy.

* * *

><p>She'd found the 'Heat Wave' and had to hide her face behind her hands to stifle the laughter. He'd just muttered something about it being too good an opportunity to pass up and grabbed her coffee mug again, another refill. She'd found three more while he'd been gone, decided to look for them then set them on the paper on her desk for when he returned.<p>

"You ruined it," he'd whispered as he leaned across her, placing the mug on her far side, away from the candies in its usual spot and an excuse to move closer, whisper to avoid the ever attentive ears of her team mates, their team mates.

She'd just shook her head at him and slipped the pink 'Dream Team' into her mouth, that one she could swallow, chew at that moment. The others lying before her, from her coat pocket were a little heavier, a little harder to swallow.

She'd covered the with a loose paper, just to avoid having them stare back at her as she worked, conceal them from a curious passerby, cover them from nosey colleagues across from her.

She'd drunk her coffee much quicker than was necessary; suddenly decided she needs a refill. She wasn't too proud to ask him to make her a coffee, but today she didn't want to. She wanted the excuse for the minute alone, so she grabbed his half-full mug and asked "refill?" loud enough that the others would hear, but not raise suspicion.

He'd eyed her curiously, flicked his eyes to her desk, and noted the lack of candy. "Sure," he'd offered and followed her across the room.

As soon as he'd shut the door she'd turned, stepped toward him, a challenge she had hoped he wouldn't shy away from. He hadn't, just eyed her curiously, studied every about her, her face, her stance, anything his eyes could find he watched with a fascinated curiosity.

"If you're going to yell don't do it here," he'd said quietly.

She'd just been about to speak when he'd beaten her to it.

"What?" she'd managed. "Why would I yell?" She'd been curious.

When his shoulders had slumped a little, at her shock she'd realised he'd readied himself for a fight. That wasn't even on her radar.

"Castle," she says slowly, sucking in a deep breath as she glances to the windows surrounding them, the blinds slanted half closed, obscuring most of the view, shrouding the walls of this fishbowl. But then she realises she doesn't care who sees. To anyone walking by her partner looks upset, like he needs a moment and she's giving him the opportunity to speak quietly, privately. It's not the first time she's seen people come in this room for a moments quiet. Sure, none of them are leaving candy hearts across the others desk and are fearful of their response, but still. Some privacy is some privacy.

"I wouldn't. I wanted to ask you… I need to know what it means." She stole his wrist as he moved to cross his arms, her mug hanging from her fingers, probably crashed into his wrist, leaving a mark he won't mention. She'll apologise in a minute, once she sorts this out. He'd been forced to step with her, back deeper into the room. She turned him, angled them so she'd be concealed behind his wide shoulders should anyone burst into the room.

Then he'd eyed her curiously, considering her words, considering the position she'd just put them in as well, no doubt.

"It's the truth." Then he'd slipped both mugs from her hands, unhooked her fingers from the cool ceramic and placed them on the table. All she'd been able to do was watch as he slid his fingers over her clenched fists, begging her silently to open them. She'd swallowed, then obliged.

"This one first," he'd said as he turned the oddly purplish-blue confection over in his fingertip, rolling it along her palm.

She'd swallowed, re-read the writing to be sure which one he was referring to. 'Crazy 4 U'certainly had been the easier of the two to explain.

"You've known this one's been true for…'" he'd sighed before continuing, "years."

She'd just hummed her response, her agreement. It hadn't made it any easier to read, to pull from her pocket expecting another witty reference, safer options. At least it hadn't been an 'I love you'. Then she leans back, studies him. She knows he wouldn't say it on some confection, but she hadn't thought he'd say it the way he had the first time, forced from him like she'd slip away. She almost had.

"How long have you known?" she'd asked quietly. Tit for tat, it was only fair.

"When did I not know?" he'd responded softly as he stole the heart from her palm.

He'd held it up between two fingers for her to see. "This one," he'd flicked his eyes to it, then back to hers, let her watch it while he spoke, his eyes too intense for her to meet as he continued, "should have been easy."

She'd done it on a whim, stolen it from his fingers with her mouth. He'd still had her hands captive in his so it's not like she'd had much other choice. She hadn't missed the quiet groan that had slipped from his mouth.

It seemed he hadn't expected her to take her fortune so literally.

He'd opened and closed his mouth once then twice and on the third move he'd spoken just as he was about to clamp his jaw again.

"The other one," he spoke softly as he slid his fingers back across her still closed fist, meeting her eyes as she chewed on the purple confection, continuing only once he'd watched the rise and fall of her throat as she'd swallowed, "is something I should have made clearer."

She'd opened her mouth to ask what he meant but he'd forged ahead, either not noticing she had a question or deciding he'd answer it with more words. She'd know it would be more likely the later so she hadn't fought it.

"It's not so much a request for right now, more a… hint of something to come." His voice had been so quiet she'd stepped closer, pressing their mesh of hands back into his stomach to hear him.

He'd wanted her to be his. She'd slide her thumb over the yellow confection, tracing over the words she couldn't see. 'Be Mine' was the message she'd slid under the skin of her thumb. She had been overwhelmed for the briefest of seconds, overcome with a panic too intense to name, but then it had slipped away as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"I'm not saying-"

She'd cut him off. She'd known what he was saying. What it meant.

And what she'd had to say. What she'd have to do.

* * *

><p>She snaps back out of her memory, finds him watching her curiously. She has to wonder how long he's been watching her. She knows it must be a while from the ache in her eyes from staring at his hand, poised on the edge of her desk.<p>

"Finished?" he asks softly.

She blinks, forces herself to meet his eyes as she nods. She isn't finished, but she needs to go home. "I'll drop you home." It's not an offer, or a request even, more of an order. Except she's too tired to be giving orders. Her mind has been buzzing all day because of this case, the stacks of paper she's had to shift through, the small candy hearts which had stolen her focus for much longer than was appropriate in the workplace and in front of their giver nonetheless.

He slips his hand across her back, guiding her toward the elevator.

He reaches around her for the button as she's about to lift her arm. She nudges him lightly with her hip, another attempt to follow the fortune, heed his advice. "I can do it myself you know," she offers quietly, raising a brow in challenge.

His hand returns to her back, almost spanning her hip. "You get to push the button when we get inside. Make sure you press the G," he teases.

She narrows her eyes glaring at him as she angles herself to respond. Then decides against it.

"It's only fair," he offers quietly, his eyes roaming her face, continually returning to her eyes, watching, studying, as observant as always.

"Equals," she mutters, letting her shoulder wedge beneath his arm. Another opportunity.

"Partners," he amends, slipping his hand a little further across her back, resting on the top of her hip again. Apparently he's not letting them pass either.

She nods and then the elevator has dinged, opening its doors to them. She stays still for a second, wanting to be against him half a moment longer before heading downstairs and then having to sit on opposite sides of the car, her concentration forced solely on the road before her.

Then the decision isn't her own anymore, he's taken control, stepped forward, pressing against her hip, guiding her along with him, prompting her to follow.

She flicks her eyes up to him, decides the thought she voiced earlier in the break room isn't as scary as it had been to say. Telling Richard Castle that she would let him continue this, continue showing her she could be his, that she could take chances and let him show her how crazy he was, had been as easy as murmuring that she knew, she understood and slipping the candy into her mouth. He'd meshed their fingers together and stopped breathing, until she swallowed it. And she hadn't said anything until she'd swallowed.

"You know I had another one?" he says quietly.

"I'd assumed there were more than six in the box." She chooses to stare at their reflections, warped in the steel of the doors as they descend.

"But it was too cliché to use today." Wasn't this all a giant cliché? But she let him have it, stayed silent and waited for further information. "Plus when you kiss me," she stiffens and his hand twitches on her hip, his fingers moving to soothe, a promise, an assurance, "I don't want it to be in this precinct." This sounds terrifying, like gifts that are going to increase in size, take her out of her comfort zone.

She steels herself, glances up at him. She finds him watching their reflection in the doors too. She sees them open out of the corner of her eye, the reflection disappearing.

"Me either," she offers quietly as she removes herself from his side, letting his fingers linger on her coat as she heads out onto the street to the car, letting herself get lost in thought as he moves beside her, no longer touching. He gives her a soft smile as she slips into the car, clicking her belt in and the only other thing he says to her is "Until tomorrow," as he slides out of the car.

Until tomorrow indeed.


	9. February 9th

**9th February**

She jerks awake, the sound of her phone echoing through her room. She opens her eyes to find the suffocating darkness of her bedroom in the dead of night, the glint of light slipping in between the blinds provide the only source of light. It's only focus her dresser, a select portion of it she should not be thinking of in the moment as she gropes blindly for her phone, it should have been on the nightstand. And then-

There it is.

She wraps her hand around the squealing device, needing to silence it before it pierces a hole in her skull, its shrill sound like the whir of a drill as it boars its way through.

"Beckett," she answers. Ignores the fact her tongue is dry, sticking to the roof her mouth, heavy even as she says her own name, something she's more than practiced in.

The voice through the phone jolts her, too loud.

But they're not giving her an address, they're asking her a question.

"I-" She stops, doesn't bother trying to continue with the hitch in her throat. She swallows the dry feeling, finds her throat's response is to give a bark of protest, her lungs urging her to expel the air, dislodge something lingering thick in her throat. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" She notes the husk in her own voice. But she's just got to wake up some more, drink some water.

"It's fine. I didn't realise you were off sick Detective. I'll call someone else. I hope you feel better." The woman is polite and hangs up the phone as soon as Beckett manages to make a noise, cursing her tongue for being so heavy this morning. The woman thought she was making a noise of acknowledgement, really it had been protest.

She'll be fine after a drink of water. She goes to the kitchen and fills a glass of water, taking a few large gulps, almost draining the glass. She realises as she dials that she's already thirsty, damn. But she can carry a bottle of water with her, she's worked through a sore throat before, she can do it again.

Her lungs protest the intake of breath she takes to ready herself for speech. Okay maybe she's not alright.

She hangs up the phone, it hadn't even connected and her body had given out on her.

She'll call the Captain in a few hours and tell the woman she'll come in later, finish the paperwork and to call if they get a case. But right now, she refills her glass and heads back to bed. A 3AM outing to stand in the blistering cold would do nothing to improve her condition. She'd end up home in bed by lunch time anyway, sent away disgruntled by the Captain or even Ryan and Esposito, they've done it before. She sighs, when she realises, Castle wouldn't allow it at all.

She sets the glass heavily on the nightstand. She'll wake up again with her alarm and see how she is.

* * *

><p>Except the shrill of her alarm, the buzz of the radio filling the room, the announcer's voice normally irritating but today it's enough for her to fling her arm across and slap the button to silence the offending squawk.<p>

It seems she's also developed a headache. But she can deal with that too. She can force herself to swallow a few pills to overcome that hurdle.

She rolls onto her side, reaching for the glass of water she'd almost emptied in the remaining hours of the night, waking twice to the sensation of a dry mouth, her tongue once again thick and heavy.

She drains the glass and feels the lukewarm water slide down her oesophagus, coating the parched tube. She sucks in a breath of cool air, letting it soothe her now moist mouth.

Then she feels the gurgle of protest in her stomach, the movement of the water in completely the wrong direction as her diaphragm begs her to cough. She clamps her jaw and runs to the bathroom.

She hunches over the basin and feels like her lungs are trying to work their way out her mouth, like her stomach is about to empty its contents at the next deep contraction, urging her body to cough violently again.

Except nothing obeys her insistent muscles, her stomach doesn't empty and her lungs most certainly don't emerge from her mouth.

When the coughing fit subsides, deep and prolonged, it leaves her heaving, her hands on her forehead, slick with a sheen on sweat.

Then the heaving triggers another bout. It's not nearly as violent, but her stomach is still trying to purge itself. She doesn't even know why. She doesn't even remember the last time she was sick. At least not sick enough to be hunched over first thing in the morning willing her body to vomit so she can stop this convulsing. But she doesn't vomit. She doesn't even have to deal with phlegm.

When the fit subsides she fills the cup she'd set on the basin, carried in her haste. And drinks most of it down. Soothing her parched throat, bracing herself for another bout. When it doesn't come she refills it again and heads back to bed, back to her phone.

"Gates," the woman answers, completely business-like and seemingly alert at barely 6AM. It makes Kate's head spin.

"Morning Sir, its Beckett." She forces herself to continue despite the overwhelming urge to cough again. All she did was greet the woman and inform her who she was speaking too, the husk she can hear in her own voice would certainly have thrown the woman off. She doesn't fight the urge to give a short bark as she finishes though, angling the phone from her ear.

"Something I can help you with?" she asks, a little distracted. Of course she is playing it coy or maybe she's that focused on something else that she's completely missed the husk and the bark and probably the drone as her head plays catch-up with her mouth.

She opens her mouth to respond, the cool air tickling her throat causes her to give a response that is far less than human. She meant to ask about the call she got from dispatch. Whether they needed her to come in.

"Beckett?" she asks her.

Kate presses a hand to her chest, fighting the shudders, forcing them into her control. She win's after a second. Takes a deep breath. "I'll be right by lunch. Just need to sleep it off a little, let some meds set in." The excuse sounds weak to her own ears.

"I don't want you setting foot in my precinct all day, Beckett. I don't need everyone infected with whatever it is you've got."

Kate sighs. She isn't going to win the argument, but she's sure she'll be fine by lunch. Maybe she'll just turn up, the Captain wouldn't exactly refuse her entry or send her home.

"Yes, Sir." She spoke as soon as she swallowed, succeeding in beating the coughing fit.

"First thing tomorrow, Detective."

* * *

><p>She doesn't make it in after lunch. She forces herself to eat a piece of toast, take a shower and slide into the baggiest clothing she can find. The proceeds to curl up in front of daytime television shows she hasn't seen in years, but can still follow. Some of the drama hasn't evolved.<p>

She hasn't gotten any better. It hasn't really gotten any worse though.

She's basically asleep when her door is unlocked. She freezes, stops still, facing the back of the couch she's just debating how long she should wait before turning around to face him. Maybe she should just feign sleep and let him slip back out.

No such luck.

"Hey," his voice is soft, like he's just noticed the giant lump of her on the couch. "I rang the guys to see why you weren't answering and seems you had very good reason." Is he really teasing her? She's not even going to bother defending herself.

"I got hit by a bus," she says slowly, avoiding triggering the bark in her throat, cursing the husk in her voice. At least she hasn't launched into the coughing fit yet.

"It sure does look that way," he offers softly and she can hear him coming toward her, already there apparently when he touches her shoulder and leans over. "Need anything? I brought some supplies." He holds the plastic bags up so she can see.

"I should be taking another dose, but it's too warm in here." She'd been planning to go without for another fifteen minutes, the naps she's been having have been short so its not like she'd have been too far overdue.

"I'll get that, in the meantime tell me what you'd like me to do with all this stuff?" He sets the bags in the space her body has created curling onto its side.

"Thanks Castle," she says softly, flicking her eyes to the first time since he arrived, giving him a tight smile when she finds him beside her, much too close to be deemed safe from infection. Too late now.

She flicks her eyes over the bags, a box of tissues, a packet of cough drops as big as she's ever seen, boxes of pills and syrups to supply her for a month, all for varying types of colds and flues. How he brought them all without raising the suspicion of the pharmacist is beyond her.

She shifts the first bag, mainly full of necessities to the other bag. There is a hot water bottle in a fuzzy cover, few bottles of something she can't see in the bottom, nestled beneath Band-Aids and a packet of jelly beans.

"Band-Aids? Really Castle," she says, loud enough that she hopes he'll hear but not too loud to trigger a coughing fit.

"Hey, Espo never told me how sick you were," he says softly, back beside her already, apparently he'd spied her empty glass at the foot of the couch too. "You should sit up to take this," he offers, raising his eyebrows at her still hunched form, still surrounded in the effects of his pit stop on the way over here.

She takes the glass he's offering and sits slowly while he moves the plastic bags to the floor beside her.

She swallows the pills he's given her without question, clearly he'd taken more time to rummage through her medicine cabinet than she had.

"Thanks Castle," she says after she takes an extra gulp of water.

"You don't need to thank me Kate." She watches him swallow and flick his eyes down the length of her body. She suspects the 'It's what I'm here for,' will remain unsaid.

"Yes I do. You don't have to come and supply me with tissues and medicine and hot water bottles. So thank you." She's amazed she hasn't been interrupted by a coughing fit, but her voice is low when she's talking to him barely a whisper.

She watches him roll his eyes a little, unwilling to accept thanks, but that doesn't matter now. She's at least stopped the verbal protests. She realises she set her hand on his knee, atop the crouch he's folded into on the floor beside her.

"Sit with me?" she asks softly, sliding her arm up the elbow she'd had her behind, along the forearm hanging limp in front of him until she curls his fingers through her own.

* * *

><p>He doesn't understand what she's asking. Doesn't want to prod her to repeat it, afraid he's misheard and will make a fool of himself. But then she's sliding her fingers around his wrist, giving a gentle tug. So he stands, keeps her fingers with him. He nods as he stands, letting her shift. He moves to step to the other end of the couch, slip beneath the thick blankets and curl her legs around him, or drape them across his lap, or whatever she prefers.<p>

She stops him because she's moving the other way now, twisting her body to toss a few pillows to the side, hunching herself forward then guiding his hand back around behind her. When he sits in the seat, already draping his hand over her stomach to guide her back against his side so she can sleep at his shoulder, she stops him with her laughter.

"Not what I meant Castle," she prods.

He stops moving, confused.

Then what did she mean. "Huh?" he asks stupidly. That was not the question he had formed in his mind, on his tongue.

She laughs lightly at him, dropping his hand on her stomach like its no big deal. But then her fingers are under his knee, prodding the shift of his leg while she leans forward again. He doesn't fight it. But he also doesn't miss the way his hand has slid along her stomach, slid around to the side, climbing increasingly higher as he stays stock still with her movements. When he feels his thumb hit her back, following the curl of her ribs, he clings to her small frame, allowing her to shift his body around her own, bring his legs up beside hers.

Only when she's curling up on his chest, after pushing him back against the arm of the couch, does he fully understand. He wraps an arm right around her and slides his fingers across her forehead, shifting her hair so he can see her face. She's basically asleep already. Though he knows he roused her when he came in, she won't ever admit it, but she needs the sleep. Her body is begging her to let it recover.

The best he can offer is to lie with her and let her get an hours rest.

* * *

><p>She jerks away, her body begging for air as it simultaneously goes into the spasms that seem to come with these full body coughs, clenching in her gut.<p>

Then there is a hand at her back, soothing noises in her ear as he leans forward with her, sits up, jolted by her sudden movements.

But then his hand is in front of her, offering the full glass of water. She drinks deeply then pushes it back into his hand.

"Better?" he murmurs, as he slides his hands over her shoulders, prompting her to relax and lean back into his chest, she isn't quite ready yet so she shakes her head, presses her hand to her chest, attempting to suffocate another bout. After the second set of these she hasn't bothered to return to the bathroom to await the vomit. She just has to wait them out.

Once she's done again she turns sideways and finds he's offering the water again. She takes a gulp and leans over him to set it on the floor herself. She feels the rise and fall of his chest stop, his breath hold as she leans over him then settles her head on his chest.

Only once she's slid her arms around him does he take another breath.

"This counts as a gift doesn't it?" she asks quietly after a few minutes.

"Not this," he murmurs as he continues to traces her shoulder blades and spine with the tips of his fingers.

She rises up on her chin to meet his eyes, her head heavy with the sleep and the headache and the drugs.

"More those." He flicks his chin at the bags.

She lets herself chuckle.

"Thank you," she mutters as she gives his waist a squeeze. She sets her forehead on his sternum, as his hands trail up her spine.

"You don't need to thank me, Kate," he chastises softly.

She slides her own fingertips over his skin, pressing into muscles surrounding his spine, taking full advantage of the fact he's still propped up against the arm of her couch, an expanse of his back free to her touch.

"I do." She doesn't say anything more, hopes he realises she wants to thank him not for today but for the last few days. She hadn't even come home and mulled over those candy hearts, just collapsed in bed and fell asleep. She ignored the fact she'd played with the fur on the bear's paw as she settled into bed, reading a few pages before she couldn't keep her eyes open anymore.

He slides his hands up her back, guiding her higher up his body, she slides her head along his chest and nestles into his neck as he pulls the blanket around them again.

"You should get some more sleep," he mutters against her forehead.

"In a minute," the husk of her voice doing nothing to conceal the fact she's about to nod off again.

Then he's craned his neck and forced her to meet his eyes. "You need to sleep." It's as much an order as it is an insistence.

She opens her mouth to protest but stops short when he kisses her cheek, keeps his nose pressed to her skin.

"Stop fighting it and let it happen," he mutters into her skin. Now she's pretty sure it's not just sleep he's discussing. Maybe she's too tired, too hopped up on medicine, too hazy from the headache.

She twists her head, kisses his chin before dropping back into the groove of his neck, wedging herself back under his cheek.

"Okay," she says softly.

She feels him exhale against her cheek before he lifts his head again, sliding his fingers over her temple, shifting the hair she's grown so used to ignoring it doesn't even bother her anymore.

Then she feels him exhale at her chin, his nose touch hers. She lifts her head to meet him half way, well… Not quite half-way, but half-way since she worked out what was going on.

Its feather light and so barely there that it shouldn't count, just a brush of his lips over her own. It's a habit that hasn't even become habit yet. But it counts, her every nerve ending is on fire it counts for so much. The exhale of breath against her skin means it counts to him too. Of course it counts to him, it never hasn't.

She lets him kiss her cheek before she buries her face in his neck, eyes still closed. She breathes in the scent of him, aftershave and all, and she doesn't want to have to move.

So she doesn't. Not until his stomach groaned and she forced him to go home to his daughter. He'd piled her with toast and made her take more pills, refilled the glass more times than she could count. It was time for him to leave.

She'd walked him to the door, still shrouded in the blanket he'd hastily wrapped around her after she'd stood. She'd only obliged when she'd caught a whiff of him within its fabric.

She'd assured him she'd see him tomorrow, call him with a case.

He'd shaken his head and stepped forward to kiss her forehead.

Then he'd been gone, leaving her standing slightly awkwardly in the doorway to her own apartment, not knowing what to do now he was gone. But he'd come back. She'd just have to wait until tomorrow.


	10. February 10th

**10th February**

There it is again. That resounding clatter, the insistent drone and the increasing volume has penetrated her subconscious, yet again. That stupid alarm clock just doesn't know when to quit it. But as she forces herself to wake, slip into consciousness, it decides to prod her skin, shift her body. It's so demanding this time of the-

Wait, shift her body.

Her alarm clock can't do that.

Her phone doesn't even do that. Sure, there is an irritating buzz when she wakes to find her phone pressed against her stomach or beneath her shoulder blade, or once even at the side of her face, like she'd fallen asleep on the phone. But the jerks which result from those wake-up calls are from the rapid contractions of her muscles, the impulses firing along her nerves as the phone fires its own signals, disrupting her sleep.

This is different.

Then she's prodded again and she opens her eyes, wide, rolls onto her other side, suddenly alert. People prod.

"Castle."

She jerks a little, away from him shocked. Why is he here, in her room, in the middle of the night?

She hauls herself up, sitting in the sheets but perching herself against the cool headboard as she regards him in the hallway light. He hasn't said anything but he looks worried, she clears her throat so she can speak, finds it dry. There is no way to avoid the husk, or the bark that will follow speech.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" she says them quickly, hoping to get out her third question before the bark overcame her again, but failed.

He's shaking his head in response, gathering the glass of water on her nightstand and putting a knee on the edge of her bed so he can pass it down to her, regard her at her own level. He still looks worried as she takes the glass and drinks deeply.

She swallows the water and speaks quickly. "Is everything alright?" she asks before taking another glass. "Is Alexis okay?" She stops another bark with a gulp of water.

He shakes his head again and sets a hand on the knees she curled up to her chest as she barked, trying to gain control of her body, a knee-jerk response she can't explain.

"You're sick," he offers quietly.

"I'm fine, Castle." Her voice is softer, avoiding the husk, avoiding the risk of coughing again. She sets her hand atop his own, sliding her fingers around his and giving a gentle squeeze, reassurance. He came back, in the middle of the night, just to check or to offer something he remembered once he got home.

She tugs on his hand, moving to shift across the bed a little so he has enough room to sit properly on the edge. But he stops her with a look, a shake of his head. "Later," he says it so softly she's not sure she heard it.

"Later?" she echoes, curious. She just wanted him to explain, to sit beside her so she isn't dizzy with looking up at him like she has been.

"I've got something to do first, just drink some more water and I'll come back," he urges gently, sliding his fingers over the hand which somehow ended up atop her own knee not covering his. He must have shifted.

She goes to speak, feels her throat clench just at the prospect of an open mouth. Right now, words aren't an option. So she just nods feels him let go of her hand, brushing his fingers over the back of her hand as he retreats.

Then he's gone, headed down the hall. She finishes the water and sets the glass on the bedside table, flicks on the lamp and curls back into the sheets, closing her eyes and waiting for him to come back.

* * *

><p>He stops in the doorway when he returns, admiring her sleeping form. Then he realises she isn't sleeping, her shoulders are too tight, her body relaxed but not quite enough.<p>

He sets the new glass of water and the cup with the cough syrup he brought earlier on her bedside table, picking up the empty cup.

When she opens her eyes, giving a soft smile before closing them again and shifter deeper into her bed sheets he wants to do nothing more than curl his body around hers, kiss the side of her face and whisper reassurances to her. But she won't let him do that, even if she may want the same, he knows he shouldn't push this too far. She's sick and sure she wants the comfort, needs the comfort, but if she wakes in the morning, ready to go back to work and finds his body twisted around hers, sharing her bed, she might just make those walls a few stories higher. He's only just getting to the top of them now.

Showing up here was a risk. He knows. But he has to hope she'll understand once he comes back, why he decided to show up in the middle of the night. Then he'll let her be, let her sleep and head back home, able to crash in his own bed. He'd expected her to be awake, or dozing on the couch. So his knock on the door would rouse her, but she didn't. So he'd slipped the key from his pocket and crept inside. Boiled the kettle on his way past.

He sighs as he watches her, then turns on his heel and heads back from the room to grab the things he brought with him and the things he's found here, all for her.

He squirts a little of the lemon juice into the cup, squirts the honey through it and fills it with the water from the hot jug. He's glad he let it stand for a few minutes, it needed to cool a little. He stirs them all together, the aroma filling his nose. When he'd still been at the loft he'd gone to the kitchen, in his procrastination, to find something to eat and stumbled upon the honey. Then remembered lemon juice. The crucial ingredients his mother had always given him as a small child, to soothe his throat and clear his sinuses. How had he forgotten that when he pooled those bits and pieces together?

He had decided it wasn't too ridiculous to go over there and tell her the story, share a snippet of his life she hasn't heard before, let her know too he too has walls he's letting her into. His walls are more like the trimming around a small garden, but still, they exist.

He grabs the blankets off the lounge stuffs them, along with Alex, under his arm. He'd spied the bear on the couch amongst the blankets when he'd stepped into the dark apartment, his small, tan form the only discernible feature in the poorly lit room. He'd been curious when he purchased the bear what significance it would hold for her, but he knows she hasn't found the other portion of that day's gift yet, still nestled safely in the spare pillow on her bed, unlikely to be discovered until her next day off, where she has time to change her sheets. He likes it that way, a lingering gift, a hidden surprise. It may not even be discovered until he's finished with these small gifts, the plan hasn't got much further to go, only four days of small things, he keeps swapping them around, switching ideas as the mood anticipates.

The mug of hot water he's got balanced in his fist was most certainly not on his list, nor were the gifts yesterday. But the other gifts seem stupid in comparison to these. Especially now that she's sick. Sure, she's not dying and she'll be completely over it in a few days. But right now, he has to show her, as much as she'll let him, that he is here, whatever she may need. He certainly won't be complaining seeing as she seems to want him to sit in bed with her for a while. He wants to let her know about at least, before he leaves for the evening.

* * *

><p>She opens her eyes when she hears him shut off the hall light, smiling as she notices him using his elbow, his left arm laden with blankets, her own included. She doesn't miss Alex tucked under his arm and wants to roll her eyes, she probably should, but she's distracted because he's moving around to the far side of the bed.<p>

He raises his eyes slightly in question as he reaches the edge, his knees against the mattress, and shins against the frame. He's nervous and its so tempting to joke, at his expense of course, but she can't. She's almost certain she's never seen him so controlled, so cautious and so deliberate in his actions. He's nervous. She isn't sure why exactly, but it's about this. The fact he's unlocked her door in the middle of the night to do nothing more than bring her coffee, or tea. It smells like tea.

"Here," he says softly, kneeling across the bed to pass her the mug.

She pats the space beside her. "Sit down," she offers as she takes the mug. He still hasn't moved, eyeing the space warily like he's having some internal debate about overstepping boundaries. He unlocked her apartment in the middle of the night, waking her up to give her tea… tea with honey. She blows onto the hot liquid as she takes a small sip, it's not too hot, considerably cooler than she drinks her coffee, but still, her throat is too raw to let too much go down.

"Lemon and honey?" she asks him quietly.

He nods and finally settles onto the bed, depositing the blankets to the side, setting Alex beneath the sheets just like she found him the other day. He's too far away, but he's sitting on her bed, leaning back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him as he watches her take another sip.

"Mother used to make it for me when I was younger. She swears by it, soothes sings vocal chords or something. I just think it tastes good." He shrugs and smiles, finally relaxing. "And I was writing and went to get something to eat and… I realised I should have made it for you this afternoon." He shrugs his shoulders again, like it's not a big deal that he came over here at one in the morning to make her a hot drink. He could have done it at the precinct, but then she peers into the cup, decides things like this shouldn't be at the precinct.

* * *

><p>He can't read her expression exactly; there are too many facets to it to name them all. She doesn't look annoyed enough to kick him out, maybe disgruntled by her awakening but not mad. She seems slightly amused at the thought of his mother getting him to drink it as a child, probably remembering something her own mother did. That would certainly explain her far off smile, just a tiny hint. But he also can tell how tired she looks, like she just wants to collapse back into the sheets and not resurface until noon the next day. He can't help but want to join her, sit here beside her while she sleeps. He's perfectly content with that.<p>

Then there is a new expression for him to read, but it is unhidden, unguarded. He's a little shocked. She's draining the last of the liquid from the mug. He is grateful she appreciated it, even if it is one in the morning and ignoring the fact they should both be asleep in bed, separate beds, in separate apartments not in her bed, watching each other. The expression on her face turns to action once she faces him again after setting her mug on the bedside. She pulls the bear from beneath the quilt and sets him on her lap, absently burying her hand in the fur and playing with a soft ear.

She's doing it deliberately. Toying with the ear and watching him through her hair, like she's toying with him a little too. Like she's trying to convey something she can't put into words. Except what she doesn't realise is he's not making assumptions, he's not even going to take a guess. This is under her control, he'd even waited for her approval before sitting on top of her bed, taken a moment to enjoy it once he'd told her about the mug of honey and lemon, but then he'd realised he had no other reason to be there and he was struck once again by how odd it was to be with her at one in the morning, be on her bed, with her beside him, after he'd unlocked the door and invited himself inside. He's certainly done enough this morning in terms of progress.

* * *

><p>She doesn't know what to say.<p>

"Thanks, Castle. I didn't exactly need it," she teases softly, "but it was an interesting gift." She's not going to mention oddly comforting to wake up to find he's made himself in her apartment. A little creepy but still comforting.

"What's wrong with Alex? You seem to have been needing her more than I thought you would have."

He's toying with her, watching her fiddle with the soft fur of the bear's ear. She doesn't bother to stop, just flicks her eyes to the bear on her lap, making it apparent she's regarding it, considering its feelings. If he wants to toy with her, she can dish it right back.

"She's a pretty good listener." She shrugs as she looks at him pointedly. "Plus she doesn't snore, or hog the blankets." She deliberately flicks her eyes to the pile he's left folded behind him. He's not exactly hogging them, and she doesn't even need them, but the opportunity is there, so she's taking it.

"I bet she doesn't like your snoring." Now he's barely concealing his teasing.

"I don't snore." She sounds too defensive, she knows. But she angles her body away from him. "Alex would have told me." She throws it over her shoulder with defiance, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder and stick her tongue out at him.

"Only when you're sick." She feels the depression in the mattress as he shifts up behind her a little.

"Been watching me sleep Castle?" She knows he hasn't. He's seen her asleep on a couple of rare occasions.

He chuckles and touches her shoulder, she's barely turned away from him, angled just enough so he can't see her face. But apparently that's too far away.

She rolls back, mimics the shape of his body, stretched out flat on her bed, but with a gap, just an inch, and her sheets, separating their bodies.

He's shaking his head, no. "I just know."

She rolls her eyes, of course he does. Of course he pays attention.

"Also," he says softly, sliding an arm behind her, apparently suddenly daring now she's turned back to face him, her proximity too much to resist. She's glad. She'd been about three minutes from scooting against his side, setting her head at his stomach and sliding her arm under the pillow below his back.

She realises he's still speaking, teasing really.

"Huh?" she asks, peering up at him.

He chuckles. "I never took you for the type to cuddle with a teddy bear on the couch."

"I wouldn't exactly call you a teddy bear…" she taunts. Such an easy opportunity. Too easy to dodge his question. She won't be sharing the fact she'd gone back to her bed and grabbed the bear before she curled back up on the couch. She'd set the bear on her hip and laid back to watch TV, enjoying the heat his body had left in the cushion. The heat and the faint traces of his aftershave, almost made it feel like he was still there.

That earns her a poke to the ribs and she twitches closer to him. She should have expected that response, but she'd been expecting it from his other hand, the hand she can see on his stomach, not the one which had been rubbing gentle circles on her elbow.

* * *

><p>She's flush against his side now, an arm wedged between them, her shoulder under his arm, he's glad he slide down the mattress a little when he scotched closer.<p>

She's shaking her head at him now and not bothering to contain her smile as she slides the arm from between them across his back, wedging it into the pillow under him, abusing the fact he's over the gap, resting her hand between his shoulder blades.

"You didn't drink the cough syrup," he chides as he flicks his eyes around the room, taking in the details, the things he'd been too intent on avoiding the other day.

"It tastes gross." She screws her face up is distaste.

He can't help but laugh. "You sound like a child. I used to have this fight with Alexis." He can't help it, he pulls her closer and presses his nose into her hair, a futile attempt to conceal his laughter, kissing her head as he retreats.

She'd been laughing with him, soft and hesitant, until he'd kissed her head.

Then she pulls away. He thinks he may have overstepped, reaches out to touch her retreating back, shivers when he grazes his fingers over the thin material of the t-shirt, realising, for the first time, she's in her pyjamas. An oversized tee and he doesn't even know what, doesn't even know if there is anything else. But his attention is stolen again and she raises the small medicine cup in a soft toast before tipping her head back and swallowing the mouthful, screwing her face up in distaste, in disgust.

"The taste would have been washed away if you'd drunk it earlier," he teases softly, not hesitating to pull her back to his side now she's swallowed the supposedly horrid substance. "The honey would have washed it away."

He feels her shrug against his chest, notices how she's basically curled into his side again, a hand on his chest, the other back between his shoulder blades, fingers sliding softly over the material as he touches the skin at her elbow, fighting the urge to toy with her fingers.

* * *

><p>They're quiet for a long while and she's basically drifted off to sleep again, head against his shoulder, fingers toying with the material of his shirt as it rests on his chest when he jerks suddenly.<p>

She forces her eyes back up to him, finds it hard to focus on him. Whatever he gave her was a night time option.

"Cold?" she asks, betrayed by the husk of her throat.

"Mm, a little," he confesses softly. "I probably should head home. Alexis might worry if I'm not there when she wakes." He doesn't sound very convincing. He wants to leave as much as she wants him to go. She wants him to stay, she's not sure if it's the drugs or the closeness or even the pure platonic nature of this, but she doesn't want him to go.

"There are enough blankets over there." She flicks her eyes to the pile beside him. "You can stay if you want, Castle."

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to. She's okay with that. It's probably for the best anyways.

"It's your call. Not mine."

She watches the rise and fall of his larynx, his nervous energy apparent.

It is her call.

"I don't know, Castle…" She sits up a little so she can watch his face. "Is this a good idea?" She reaches over him a pulls the pile so it's basically splayed him. She toys with the corner of one of them.

"I don't know." She hears his confession, hesitant and soft, and knows she's made her point.

"I think it'll be fine." She doesn't miss the smile he contains quickly, not wanting to seem too excited by the prospect. She wants to laugh. But decides she has to set the ground rules, remind him, that there are still some obstacles they've got to overcome. But they won't be doing that tonight, not at all. "As long as you can control yourself."

He nods vehemently.

"My alarm will go off in four hours and it's possible I'll get a call before that. Yesterday was three," she offers this piece of information, watches him glance at the clock as he processes the fact he'd barely get a powernap if history were to repeat itself. "So be prepared to be kicked out early." She unfolds a blanket as she speaks, letting him know her mind has been made up. He's staying, sleeping in his sweat pants and tee, on top of her sheets while she curls against his chest.

* * *

><p>He watches her quietly as she does it, opens the blanket over his body. He doesn't even know what she's saying anymore, watching her throw the blankets over him. She leans across and turns off the lap, surrounding them in darkness but he doesn't miss her stealing the edges of the blankets and dragging them over to herself, covering her arms as she slides them around him.<p>

He smiles when she settles her head on his shoulder again, already closing her eyes, a silent goodnight. He can't help it. He cranes his neck and kisses her cheek, soft and light, several times, until she opens her eyes again.

"Hmm," she hums as she rolls her head so she can face him. "Night Castle," she mutters as she arches her neck to kiss the corner of his chin. Then her hands are moving, the hand at his back curling her fingers along his skin as its withdrawn, brought between them, skimming his hip, causing him to shiver. The other hand, on his chest, slides across his other shoulder as he watches her shift a little, rising up. She kisses his cheek, forcing him to turn his face closer to hers, just to make it easier for her, less distance to cover.

Then she kisses him, soft and feather light, like that afternoon. He tugs her closer, resisting the urge to crush her body against his and haul her up onto his chest so he can kiss her properly, but they're not there yet.

He forces himself to blink, realises it was so quick, so sudden, that he never even realised what was happening until it was over.

He steals her lips just as she's about to settle back against his chest, a little more definite, more certain. She presses her mouth to his again as he pulls back, definite and certain, again, but then she's gone. Her head back against his shoulder and her eyes closed.

"Night Castle," she mutters.

He presses his nose to her forehead. "Until tomorrow," he responds.

She scoffs a breath. "It already is tomorrow." It's more a stage whisper than anything else.

"Hmm, but that's not what I meant. Tomorrow I'm taking you for dinner. Sick or not we're going out. You've got thirty-six hours."

She sighs and he watches her smile, nuzzling her nose against his chest as she settles in for sleep.

"Thirty-nine. I'm not going to dinner at three in the afternoon."

He chuckles and pulls her closer, sliding his fingers over her forearm, enjoying the fact he can feel her foot twitch against his ankle as she settles in for sleep. There are several layers of blankets and sheets and clothes between them, but he's content to do this for the rest of his life. He'd never need anything more if she laid with him, letting him listen to her breathing even out, that's the best gift she could offer. It's the only thing he'd ask for in return.


	11. February 11th

**11th February**

Those thirty six hours have passed as a blur of time, a haze of evidence, a parade of suspects and a disgruntled detective. Their guy had been elusive until it became clear another suspect was lying to incriminate himself. But checking that guy's alibi lead to their actual murderer, it was the complete opposite of what they'd been looking for. But it was the truth, a closed case, so none of them had any complaints.

He's been watching her struggle all day to keep coughing fits muffled, keep the headache at bay by touching her fingers to her temples, then limp through the paperwork with heavy eyes. He knows she's run down, past the point of tired, but unwilling to admit defeat. So he's done his part, kept filling her mug with lemon and honey, smirking at her as he drops it onto her desk and tells her to drink. It seems to help with the coughing fits at least.

Thankfully they'd caught their break just before lunch, so he knew she had no reason to stay past mid-afternoon. He'd doubted she would have stayed even if they hadn't, she's been struggling to keep it under wraps. He'd left at two, touching her wrist softly as he stood to leave. A simple gesture, an 'I'll see you later', but the smile she'd given him had been telling, completely open and carefree. She was happy, maybe even excited. To say it suited her is an understatement. It made him giddy to know it was him who'd put that smile there, that unguarded smile. Even if it was only a second, it had been there. And he certainly wouldn't be forgetting it.

His crazy-arse plan of chocolate hearts, teddy bears and coffee beans had tilted her off-centre just enough that she'd taken his hand as she overbalanced. It's not complete progress but it's the beginnings of something he won't let her step back from. He won't let her take back the fact she wrapped herself around him as they slept. He won't let her forget he's kissed her twice now. He certainly won't let her forget she has initiated another two for herself, reciprocations count. He won't be forgetting either. It's shocked him, given him this indescribable hum, his body so happy he can barely contain it. It's not that he ever doubted her, or her capabilities, it's just he assumed she wouldn't cross the boundary. He assumed she wouldn't let herself dangle from the wall and meet him halfway.

Except she has been doing more than meeting him in the middle.

Yesterday morning, after she'd gotten the call from dispatch she'd swatted his chest and told him to get moving, to make some toast for the road, that she'd be five minutes then he could freshen up and she'd drive him over to the loft to change, joked the sweats and bed hair would undoubtedly raise some questions with the others. When she'd come into the kitchen, found him spreading peanut butter on her toast she'd kissed him, soft and sweet, like a habit.

He never wants to do it any different.

But this morning she'd picked up him up on the way to haul in their suspect. She hadn't done anything other than smile gently in greeting and steal the coffee he'd brought mainly for her. It was almost as good as the previous mornings greeting as he watched her drink it down and smile before launching into a full explanation of her morning with the boys, apparently Ryan had caught the break, stared the guy down until he ran himself into a circle, trying to claim ownership of a crime not his own. He should have asked for a few details from his friend.

Interrogation had been painful, attorney refusing to let his client oblige so Beckett had been ruthless. She'd worked the guy down enough so that when they described blow-by-blow how he had killed her, he had physically flinched, repulsed, remembering the horror Castle added with a practised finesse. Then he'd admitted it with a nod of his head, a slip of "she begged me to stop." Case closed.

He doesn't want to leave her side, but he needs to give her the space to finish working, officially wrap up their case, tie it all together so that even the most ruthless of attorneys can't tear it apart. Her stack has shrunk considerably in the past hour, he knows she'll be home with more than enough time, but she's powering through it even quicker than normal, with a higher efficiency, like she wants to get home as much as he wants to arrive there himself.

.

'_Gone home yet? Remember you have a date to get ready for.'_

She shudders as she reads it, her concentration broken only as she heads too far across the hall outside her apartment, almost colliding with the door to her own apartment, who knows what else suffered the same near misses.

She startles back to reality, sticks her phone into her mouth, holding it between her teeth as she keeps hold of her wallet and fumbles the key into the lock. She realises, as she forces the door open, that's the first time either have termed this dinner as a date. Like the term holds some other connotation of a formal occasion laced with romance and deep meaning, a future. The realisation should terrorise her, haunt her, sneak up behind her and scream in her ear, startling and piercing, shattering a mirror she's been watching. Ruining everything.

But it doesn't.

'_Home now. I'll see you at 6.'_ She types it quickly after swiping her phone screen with her sleeve, removing the saliva with a snicker. She really should break that habit. She'll end up with a shattered screen when she drops it.

She'd assumed it was a more formal 'date' when he'd asked, but date seems like such an odd term when it comes beside Castle. It shouldn't though – they've basically done it all before. They've gone to dinner more times than she can count, gone out for drinks on multiple occasions even gone to the movies. Sure, they'd been partners and friends at the time and never… more. But the leap isn't shocking, it had always seemed inevitable. She hadn't assumed differently when he'd asked her and she knows he hadn't meant it any differently, not for a second.

The response is instant, a smiley face with an odd parenthesis she's never seen used in the context before. Curly brackets must be something he's picked up from Alexis. She doesn't question the face, just notes that if she squints her eyes a little it looks cute, like its being mischievous, that's enough of an explanation. It seems like it's served its purpose.

She decides she needs to take a bath, force herself to relax, stop herself considering brackets and colons, and soak in the heat of the water before she has to go back out in the cold, the hot in the air will clear her sinuses as much as it will clear her mind. She could do with the complete silence it affords her, the lack of urgency washing over her. It will be good to remember there isn't an urgency to this. He's giving her as much time as she needs, as much as she wants. She's not sure how long it will be before she's content with _it_, with _them_. They'll need to have a discussion, probably a few, before things settle down, until they find out what they are and put a label on it, define it and tell their families and friends. Then they'll have to tell the world.

But she shouldn't be considering this while she sits on the edge of her tub, waiting for the water to heat up enough that she can stick in the plug, ensuring it's as hot as possible.

She sees the steam seeping off the water as it comes into contact with the cool air in the room. She settles the plug and goes back to her room for underwear and a thick robe, she doesn't need to worsen this sore throat, regress the progress it seems to be making, the tea and endless syrups he keeps sliding in front of her at any opportunity. She's letting him. He's being attentive and caring and generous, like always and she's as grateful as she's ever been, just now – now she gets to thank him for it, no hesitation in smiles and touches, sure not in front of the boys or Lanie, but moments of acknowledgement, of thanks, however brief, she knows he appreciates them.

Everything is so practised, so routine, so habitual that it's easy to slide her hand over his as she moves beside him in the break room, graze his knee with her own as she scoots her chair in, or bump his foot with her own while she does paper work. It doesn't matter that it's not new, these things have a meaning now, a deliberate purpose, a weight they never carried before.

Waking up with him the other day had felt like an old routine. At the time, she'd supposed it was that she knew him so well, had spent mornings with him before, when her apartment blew up, during their visit to LA, it was all the same, but still completely different. He'd slid out of her bed, reluctantly uncurled himself from her body after pressing a kiss to her neck, at her hairline, just behind her ear. Why she'd rolled away from him in the middle of the night she wasn't sure, but the fact she'd woken in his arms, one slid beneath her sheets and one over the top of her blankets and his own. He'd broken through all the barriers separating them, even in his sleep he'd crushed walls. When he'd skimmed his hands over her hips as she greeted him in the kitchen a few minutes later she'd realised he had broken down her walls, when it happened she still can't decide, but he's there and he's not leaving, standing in the rubble of her life he's taken her hand and offered her several options. She's never been more grateful of another person in her life, no one has ever been so understanding, so patient, so willing. But he has. He continues to amaze her. He has proven he is not the celebrity persona the media have created for him. His offer of the other half of his piece of toast had crumpled what doubt remained about whether they should be doing this, about whether she should have let him stay, whether she should have taken his hand. But she'd only had a fleeting moments doubt, a moment to review the reasons why she couldn't not before he'd grabbed the two hot mugs of honey and lemon he'd left on the counter while she finished his toast. She swallowed the dry bread as she accepted the proffered cup, tossing that already crumpled doubt into the trash, the lid slamming shut behind it like she'd locked it away and thrown away the key.

She sinks into the tub as she considers the walls are still there, given they're pretty much piles of rubble, the occasion skeleton of the structure which had surrounded her, destroyed. She could have refused his help to clean up the mess, recycle that material to build something else, she couldn't not use the resources she has to build herself up stronger than ever. It would be foolish not to use those. But why bother to keep him out, push him away, while she does it. All it would lead to is impatience and then he'd find someone else. She can't have that. That isn't even an option. One and done. They're not even 'one' yet but she's done. He'd glimpsed the insides of her fort long ago and it had only made him more determined, now here they are, together. Getting him back to the other side would be a mammoth task, but she doesn't want him to leave, she won't ask him to leave. She hopes he doesn't want to leave. She wants him to stay. Walls be damned.

.

He's early. Verging on insanely early. There is still almost an hour before he should be turning up at her door.

She won't be ready. But he's already killed time.

Poor Alexis had been on the verge of strangling him, his constant hovering and odd choices of discussion topics were unfailing evidence of his nerves, his excitement, but she'd been studying so she didn't want him hovering, excited or not. His mother hadn't been there to bug so he'd kissed his daughter and told her to have a good night. She'd scoffed lightly and sent him on his way, calling him back to straighten the tie he'd skewed with his nervous energy.

She won't be ready.

But he's already walked the last three blocks to her place, killed as much time as he can stand. He wants to see her, so ready or not here he comes.

.

She's not ready. It's not even close to the time to her having to be ready. But he's knocking on her door.

She knows it's him, the soft hesitant knock, like he hopes she doesn't hear it.

But she does.

She's on edge, cautious, excited. So it wouldn't be missed. She's been debating clothes, standing in her room in her underwear the cold trying to force her to make a decision, hands on her hips as she regards her wardrobe with as much malice as she might throw at a murderer. It is certainly giving her as much hassle. But the knock forces her to tug her robe back on, wrap it around her body and answer the door.

He smirks when he sees her. "Aren't you ready? We have a date." He's teasing, at least he better be teasing, he's forty-five minutes early.

"You're forty-five minutes early," she chides, leaning against the door, unconsciously blocking the doorway, unusually self-conscious. There is a knowing look beneath his smile, a glint she saw cross his eye when she opened the door to him, he knows there is very little beneath the robe. And he doesn't mind.

He shrugs. She knows that means he couldn't wait.

"So?" He's brushing it off. She might just have to let him.

He's stepping forward to greet her, kissing her cheek softly.

She has to force her eyes back open, notices the box he's pressing into her hands as he regards her curiously again, a little mischievous and considerably excited. She's not sure it has anything to do with her state of dress this time, he's watching her face not roving his eyes over the robe.

"What's this?" she asks as she takes it. She's got a fair idea but she'll play the game, preferring for him to tell her rather than guess.

"What's this?" he echoes as he slides his hands along her forearms, running his fingers over the soft fabric.

All it takes is for her to level her gaze on him and he stops, but the smile doesn't drop from his face, his hands don't move and she doesn't mind, her own face feels like it's been held in a wide smile all day, her cheeks are beginning to protest.

"Dessert," he explains softly, stepping around the door, kicking it closed with a heel a second later.

"Oh. What is it?" She's feigning curiosity. She really doesn't mind what it is. She is a little fixed on the idea it means he'll come back up with her, though there had been only a slim chance he wouldn't be.

"It's a surprise." His fingers find her elbows, brushing the soft matieral against her skin as he kisses her softly.

He hums slightly as he withdraws. "I've wanted to do that all day," he confesses quietly. She had too but won't vocalise that need just yet. But he knows.

He's watching her, curious. She can't find words so he continues.

"So this," he nods to the top of the box, unwilling to let go of her for a second, "will clear things up later."

Now she's confused. Completely confused. "Huh?" she asks. His expression tells her it isn't stupid she's confused, he's on his own thought path.

"Now you have a legitimate reason to invite me back here, one that doesn't imply many other things."

Oh. Now she follows. "But who says this will go well enough that I won't ditch you at the restaurant, fake an emergency and leave you there."

"Then you've got this to wallow with about the failed hopes you had for your evening." His voice is soft, restrained a little, like he's afraid of that.

She scoffs. He really thinks she'd come home from a bad date and eat a whole cheesecake? But it's not even a possibility. Even if this evening is a disaster, neither will be ditching the other in the restaurant.

"It won't be horrible," he says softly, crowding in close again.

She shakes her head, no it won't be. It's him. She knows there will be some extravagant plan, but for now, she's content just to kiss him softly and retreat.

"No it won't. But I have to get ready before it can be anything," she says softly as she presses the box back into his stomach, forcing his hands to slide over hers on the underside of the box, an unnecessary touch she certainly isn't complaining about. "Give me ten minutes," she offers, kissing his cheek again now his hands have been forced into distraction.

"Five," he bargains.

She shakes her head, not negotiating. But if she happens to be ready quicker, sooner (and she will be) then he won't mind. "Stick that in the fridge," she calls as she heads back into her room, shutting the door. At least now she's certain what to wear, how to keep him looking at her like that all night. Though, he'd look at her like that if she wore a potato sack.

.

She's ready in five and he is no less than amazed, how she pulled herself together in that time he isn't sure. She didn't look dishevelled, far from it, never does, but he's still unable to stop his mouth dropping open slightly in response, not a very appropriate greeting, her laughter suggesting that's quite okay though. His mouth only closes when she leans in close to press her mouth to his, soft but not hesitant. He slides his hands over her hips, up to her waist, pulls her close for a second.

She lets him crowd her as she locks the door, sticking her keys into the small purse she's holding then not objecting to his hand on her back, leaning into him as they wait for the elevator.

"Where are we going?" she asks quietly, like she's suddenly realised he hasn't mentioned it, that she has no idea.

"Where ever you want." He watches her mouth drop open slightly.

"You didn't make reservations?" she questions, turning to look at him, almost completely at eye level with her heels.

"Nope," he shrugs. Normally he would have, but tonight she's in control. Sure he's turned up much earlier than expected, applied a little pressure, apparently in the right places, nothing has phased her. Not even his almost uncontrollable gawking at the robe, barefoot and clad in the thick robe. She hadn't shrugged one on the other morning so it spoke volumes about her state of dress. He'd had to swallow and watch her, too much intensity when she opened the front door would certainly spoil their entire evening.

"So where are we going?" she asks as the elevator doors open and reveal the empty car to them.

He kisses her softly once they close. "Up to you," he assures. It really is. If she says she wants to go and get Falafel from a cart on a corner, he won't be complaining.

Her only response is to bite her bottom lip, considering.

They've got all night, he realises as he slides his arm across her back, gliding over the soft material to tug her flush against his side. Tonight she's just Kate, not in any way a detective he must answer to. She's just his date. Well she's not _just_ his date, she's his partner. A term which is gaining new meaning with each passing day.


	12. February 12th

**12th February**

She wakes with one of those stupid grins on her face, a grin at memories, at dreams, at contentedness. She shifts her hand from the pillow beside her to run her fingers through her hair, shift it from in front of her eyes, finds a few strands caught on the corner of her mouth and sets them all back in place, readying herself for the day.

Except she isn't.

She's still got her fingers twisted around her hair as she remembers his fingers in her hair.

She'd forgone tying it back before bed, too alive with the sensation of his own fingers racking over her scalp, twisting strands through his fingers, miraculously not catching, not forming knots as he angled her head, tipped her head back. But even before that he'd spent the evening toying with it, twirling the loose curls between his fingers while he sat beside her, sharing her cheesecake after insisting he couldn't possibly fit in anything after their date.

He'd kept calling it that.

It was so overwhelming the excitement which oozed from his every pore that she'd been infected. Sure, she herself had been excited, but he was so open, so honest, so content that she'd found herself showing him, letting him see she felt the same. He'd smiled at her the first time she'd called it such, just in passing, when really it should have been termed dinner. It was just dinner. They hadn't done anything exciting. She'd taken him to a small Japanese restaurant she'd been wanting to try, searching for an excuse to try something different. He'd been willing, crowding her as he ushered her into a cab and gave the address. It wasn't just a sushi bar. He wasn't just any date.

When they'd returned, both pleasantly surprised with their food and their company, they'd settled into her nest of blankets on her couch, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, her body pressed against his side as she had slowly eaten the dessert before her. She'd taken pause between eat bite, dropped the fork to still his fingers on her shoulder, giving her chills through the dress she still wears, stop his fingers travelling her legs. Her legs had been curled so unceremoniously beside her that if it had been anyone but him she would have changed or not curled into their side to begin with. But it wasn't anyone else. It was him. She didn't have to worry, didn't want to care. She could curl her legs beside her body and let the dress hitch up a little – the blanket was over her lap anyways, but then again, it was also over his, his fingers dancing over her bare knee had been a stark reminder of that fact.

But it didn't matter. He'd already seen it all. Well… he hadn't exactly seen _all_ of her, but he's seen the other _all_, the vulnerability and the doubts she'd never let anyone else see. Not a single one of them. No other person in her life, boyfriend, friend or parent has seen what he had. She'd never shown them, they'd known it was there though – how some of them had ignored it was startling now, especially when she considered the man who'd sat beside her, the man who started caring long before she ever realised she should let him.

She'd been stuck with that thought so long she realised he'd been eyeing off the cake, so she'd offered him the forkful she'd been toying with, working onto the fork so that when she found balance again she could eat it. But the piece he'd cut her was too much anyways, she wouldn't come close to finishing it – despite her best efforts and his teasing coaxes. He'd just leaned across and taken it from the fork she'd extended, then pressed his nose to her cheek as he chewed then swallowed. He'd hummed his approval and kissed her cheek as he watched her toy with another chunk. She hadn't passed over every bite to him, but she didn't need to. He got more daring after the third offering, kissed the corner of her mouth when she eyed him curiously as she ate a mouthful herself. By the sixth piece she offered him it wasn't about the cake anymore, it was just as excuse to slide her mouth across his own, kiss the corners of his mouth, taste the edge of his lips while he ate the portion, just about swallowing it whole but lingering long enough that when he opened his mouth she'd make a noise as she tasted it on his tongue. She hadn't been able to stop herself, each time. The taste of his tongue was intoxicating enough, lingering long after the cheesecake had gone, tasting her for its self. It had given her some respite knowing he made similar appreciative noises when he tasted her mouth, cheesecake or not.

She snaps out of it, finds her fingers pressed to her mouth, like she's trying to contain her smile, like she's trying to remember the pressure of his mouth slanted across hers. She's not trying to do either, why bother, neither will work.

She realises it's been fifteen minutes since she woke, she's been lost in her own mind, in memories of his mouth for fifteen minutes. She shudders as she realised all he did was kiss her, slide his fingers through her hair, skim her knee beneath the blanket, then kiss her longingly at the door, sliding his fingers over her back. But he'd pressed his forehead to her own and told her he'd see her tomorrow. It wasn't a weighted promise but she wants it to be. She wants him to turn up and… She didn't know what exactly she wants him to do when he arrives. But she wants him to return, or invite her over. She could just turn up. She might. But right now she has things she needs to do.

If she stands any hope of seeing him she has to force herself from her thoughts, do some of the washing she's been putting off for weeks and function somewhat normally. It will take two hours, at most, it's still fairly early and the sooner she starts the better.

.

She's forced herself to move, get up and make coffee, jolt her mind into the present, away from memories and imaginings of today. She's brought it into her room while she fills the basket now in the doorway with her clothes. First to go in are the pyjamas as she sheds the clothes, finding jeans and a top quickly, too easy. She empties the hamper into the basket, not as many items as she expected, two loads at the most, once she separates the whites. She's moving around the bed, tugging the corners of the sheets out from beneath the mattress, loosening it, ready to strip it bare. A habit she's kept since she was too small to manage the large spreads of fabric on her own, untucking the corners and pulling them off the bed, waiting for her mother to come and take the other side. She's undoing the buttons, fiddling with the press duds her mind wandering but her eyes following suit, eyeing off the bear, now settled on her pillow, perched there, eyeing her off, begging for acknowledgement, for memory.

She smiles as she realises slowly, it's over. He can't possibly have more gifts, he doesn't need them, they've served their purpose. She flicks her eyes to the dresser, the buttons now all undone, the cover open, wide and gaping. She should feel exposed as she eyes the corners of the notes, the pieces of cardboard, but she doesn't. She can't stifle her smile, can't dampen it, can't bring herself to want to.

She spies the most obvious of her gifts, the cactus still sitting on the dresser, perched precariously above the small pile of paper. She should put that away, slip it into the bottom of her jewellery box or something, keep it safe, away from prying eyes. But she isn't bother now. She needs new sheets.

Then she spies it.

The hint of yellow at the back of the cactus, the odd creamy green of the bud has changed, is now a bright yellow. She's missed it. She has to wonder when it happened. It hadn't been like that on Friday night or Saturday morning, he would have said something, surely.

She drops the mess of sheets from her hands, the gaping hole fallen to the floor, suddenly closed, healed, for now. She takes the two steps to her dresser, spins the pot around to get a better view. It's odd, brilliant yellow and opened wide, in full bloom. She'd opened the curtains when she got up, forcing the light into the room, making burrowing back beneath them completely unappealing, but all that's done is emphasise the cactus in front of her, cast a light over it that seems to make her wandering mind focus. She's certain, so certain it's actually shocking. But it's not panic, it's certainty, unwavering doubt that is being affirmed by the flower on a prickly succulent. She slaps her thigh in an instant, searching, not finding. Where did she put her phone last night?

She swallows and smiles as she realises it's still in the clutch she left on the kitchen bench, discarded and forgotten at the prospect of dessert. Not 'implication of more' type dessert, but actual dessert, happy and content to settle into where they are, into _them_ and nothing more. She shudders. She'll have to take the box with her when she goes to the loft later.

She snaps a picture of the cactus, ignoring the fact she let the light from the window seep into the frame and cast its glow across the wood, the gleam evident. She sets her phone on the edge of the dresser after she sends the image through, it doesn't need any text to accompany it, it says enough. She goes back to the bed, working with a practised ease while she doesn't wait for him to respond, flicking her eyes to her phone each time she hears any noise. She should know her own ringtone, her own message tone. But she's quivering as she balls the sheets up and tosses them into the basket. She kneels on the bed and moves Alex to the sheet still beneath her knees to drag her pillow across the bed, undress the wad of stuffing.

She tosses the material across the room, another ball and sets to work on the spare. The pillow she refuses to sleep on, even since it's been replaced. But she toys with the loose corner in her fingertips now, slides a hand over the curve of the material, then another. Studying the divot where his head had been, already a dent in her life, a physical reminder of his presence. As if he himself wasn't reminder enough now she didn't just have little reminders, there was a dent, a void only he could fill. She shudders as she slides her hands over it once again, stripping off the cover to see if it's still there, if he exists beneath the layers. She's being stupid, kind of petty but she doesn't care.

Then her phone goes off and she balls up the material in her hands, dropping the pillow back to the mattress as she moves to see his response. But then stops dead as she raises her arm to toss it, a distinct crinkle, an odd rustling noise. She scans the room briefly, wonders if there's something-

There's something in the pillowcase, she realises as she squeezes it tighter. Her attempt to stop it rustling only served to accentuate the sound.

What's he done now?

She's unbundled the material, the phone still alight with his response, now forgotten.

She blinks as she tugs out the light blue material, a tiny shirt, doll's clothes. But that doesn't rustle, it's silent as she pulls it out. That's not it.

She searches again, pulls out a small hat and pants. Then she realises, when she sees the mock logo what it is. It's an outfit, her uniform.

She laughs softly to herself as she balls the items in her hand, tossing them toward the bear on the other side of the bed, like she's capable of putting them on for herself.

She strips the last sheet, still laughing quietly to herself. Only when she's tossed that last ball into the basket does she grab her phone and sit cross legged on her underlay.

She shivers as she waits for the phone to respond, to unlock and allow her to view the message, finds there are two.

_Stunning. The flower doesn't look too bad either._

She's confused, she's not even in the picture. She presses the buttons, examines the picture, certainly not in it, not even her shadow.

_I'll be there in five._

She's shocked by the second message, curious. She hadn't even heard the phone go off. She has to check the timestamp to find he could have arrived minutes ago.

_When?_ She types the response quickly, sends it as she presses the pile of fabric into the basket, grabbing her keys and leaving the phone open in the top of the basket. She's already heading down the stairs when it lights up again.

_I'm coming up now._

_Meet me downstairs, laundry._

.

He feels her presence before he sees her. He rounds the doorway, leaving the short hall, and finds her with her back to him, working methodically over the washing machines. He perches himself against the machine behind her, she doesn't acknowledge him she doesn't have to. She's stuffing sheets into the dryer and he has to smirk, she will have found the tiny outfit.

"Hey," he says when she shuts the lid, turns the knobs and presses buttons.

She doesn't turn immediately so she definitely knew he was there. She holds the basket at her side, as she steps up and slides her arms around his waist, letting the ones his opened arms envelop her.

"Hi," she says softly against the side of his face, kissing him once before withdrawing and heading for a different door to the one he used. The one a too-trusting older woman had held for him. He wonders if she'd considered that.

He follows her up the stairs, letting her carry the empty basket. He'd never realised there was a staircase, but he supposes it's for maintenance workers, given the fuse boxes which line every few flights. It doesn't matter, it's not even important

When she gets to the door he crowds in behind her, moves to whisper in her ear and she stops moving, waiting for him to move or preparing to strike. He isn't sure. But then she shifts her head just a little so her ear moves past his cheek, her temple touches his forehead. He takes that as an approval.

"Miss me?" he whispers softly.

She laughs softly. "No." He doesn't believe her, her voice is too quiet. Maybe she didn't miss him, but she's at least been looking forward to seeing him.

"I missed you," he says into her cheek, kissing her once and sliding an arm across her stomach, pulling her back against his chest.

.

His breath is warm against her skin, tickling her with its warmth. Then his hand is gliding across her stomach, feather light and coaxing. She had relaxed at his kiss, ignored his words – too easy a mark for a witty retort.

"Crap! Castle, what-" She spins on the spot, backing into the door as she shies away from it, from the bone chilling cold, like he's shoved snow down her back.

But he's laughing softly. "Sorry," he offers. His smile suggests he isn't really apologetic. "Didn't you see it?" he asks as he holds the plastic bag up for her inspection.

She shakes her head. She most certainly hadn't, but she hadn't been looking, too focused on his presence, on his hands on her back and on his mouth at her cheek, to bother with other things.

"Are you going to see what it is?" he prods softly, letting the plastic spin in his fingers.

"A tub of ice-cream?" she guesses, softly, stepping forward to take the bag and open the door she'd already unlocked.

"Today I'm not sure it's can really be considered a gift, but I thought it was time we talked, we work out what's going on. Also I think you need to know why now, why Valen-"

"What?" she interrupts. Pieces already falling into place.

.

He leans back a little, so he can watch her, curious. "What 'what'?" he asks.

"Valentine's day?" That's the part she's dwelling on, really? He'd expected hesitation in making labels, forming some kind of line between home and work. But

"Yeah?" he asks, cautious. "Why'd you think?"

She shrugs, as she heads over to the kitchen, tugging him along by the elbow, not finished. "I didn't know, Rick. I just thought you'd gotten sick of waiting, decided to make a gesture…" He watches her trail off. She is realising she's still right, there had just been an occasion to prompt him into action – a romantic occasion with flowers and candy hearts in shop fronts making the decision for him. He explains it to her, just like that. That he wanted to give her these things, small things, but meaningful, to show her he cares.

She just nods periodically as he speaks, as she heaps ice-cream into a bowl, almost the whole tub. But he won't comment she needs the distraction.

She crowds into his side as she goes to walk past, kissing him softly. "Thank you. But Valentine's day? Why not…" He watches her focus, her whole face shifting as she grabs hold of a key point. "You waited?" It's exactly what he expected. The question is soft and hesitant, but her eyes are giving her away, showing her amazement, her gratitude, her feelings as it hits her all at once that he's here in front of her.

He can only nod stupidly and wrap his arms around her, amazed she can keep the bowl out of the crushing hug but still have both arms wrapped around him.

He draws back slowly, kisses her softly, touching his tongue to her lips after only a polite second of hesitation.

.

She shudders again as he touches his tongue to the roof, running it along her hard palate. He's smiling, laughing at her response, so she draws back, sucking on the tip of his tongue for a second, lingering. But there is time for that later right now she's got some secrets to spill.

She tugs him to the couch, he barely lets go of her, just settles her wordless over his legs, prompting to lean back against the arm of the couch, her legs draped along the length of her couch, the bowl nestled in her lap.

She gives him a mouthful of the ice-cream before she speaks, lets him smile in approval, kiss her softly before she ruins it with words. She's not sure how this will go.

So she says it in a rush, explains everything. He just nods and takes the spoon she's discarded, wordlessly plying her with the fast melting gloop as she speaks.

"I know," he says softly when she's finished. Finished confessing that she knew all along, that Ryan hadn't been able to keep it from her that he'd been concerned, asking for signs about her mother's case, that she's had those names flagged in the system so as soon as he looked into them, she was notified.

She's shocked. "You're not mad?" she asks.

He chuckles at her and she swats his shoulder as he slides it around her, pulling her weight against his side. "I've known all along Kate. PTSD wouldn't be triggered by a gunshot if you don't remember being shot." He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I know why you had to… You just needed time."

She's glad they've basically emptied the bowl, it makes juggling it on her lap while she wraps her arms his neck so much easier.

She pulls back, nestles both into his hold and into the arm of the couch."Not anymore," she says softly, a promise. "But…" She doesn't know how to say it, fiddles with the spoon into the melted ice-cream.

"But we take it one step at a time. One day at a time has worked well enough so far, right?" He shifts his thigh, causing her whole body to rise and fall.

"So we go slow. Just see how it works." She's nodding as she says it and he's leaning forward, claiming her mouth, sliding his hand up into her hair again. When his fingers find her scalp she feels him lift the bowl, move it who knows where, who cares. She certainly doesn't, not while he's here. Then his other hand is skimming a thumb at her jaw, cradling the back of her head with his other fingers as they work their way through the loose hair.

Then his mouth is gone, his fingers have stilled. He touches his nose to hers once, grabbing her attention. Apparently she looks as far off as she feels. She smiles a little in apology, realising he wants to say something.

"It'll work." He didn't need to say it, vocalise it. But he has.

She huffs a breath out, soft but amused. Like he read her mind, like she can't believe it. But she does.

She just nods and nestles into his side. "So what do we do today?" she asks after a minute.

"As appealing as your washing does sound," he kisses her softly when she laughs at his teasing, "I thought you could come hang out at the loft for a few hours."

"You could have just called and asked me, Castle." She watches him raise an eyebrow at her regression to his last name. Its habit, this isn't serious like before. She doubts it's a habit she'll ever break.

"And ruin this," he says softly as he lifts her again, apparently amused by this new trick. "I don't think so. Plus the ice-cream and this talk were another gift."

She smiles, kisses him softly in thanks.

Then realises something. "If this is about Valentine's day, it's two days away Castle. Why'd you end it early?"

"Complaining?" he teases softly. "But it's not over."

She can't stop her mouth dropping. "Not over? But you got your date. And I'm here, aren't I?"

She watches him chuckle as he pulls her flush against his body, hands roving over her frame. "You certainly seem to be." He kisses her softly. "But this was just part of it, most certainly not the grande finale." His voice is light and excited, but she groans.

"No more surprises." She manages before he presses her back against the couch, leering over her eyeing her cautiously, daring her to kiss him, to give in. She doesn't.

"One more," he mutters. "You'll find out tomorrow." He's certain. Like finding out what it is will be something amazing to her. The look in his eyes makes her think it might be a good thing not knowing, just for now. As long as he doesn't keep her waiting too long.

"One more." She's certain. No more surprises after that. Then she gives in, leans up to meet his mouth and shivers contentedly when he slides his fingers into her hair again.


	13. February 13th

**13th February**

"I can't believe you asked me about tomorrow in front of the guys!" she exclaims slapping his arm as they lie in a tangled mess on her couch. They've had a long day, but at least it was an easy close. Castle had caught onto their suspect almost straight away and between the four of them, they'd pulled enough evidence to arrest him. Lucky he was an easy break. They'd stopped for Remy's on the way home and he'd insisted on coming back with her, whispering against her cheek that he hadn't had a moment alone with her all day. She'd kindly pointed out there were no prying eyes now, they were off the clock, well – she was. He'd scoffed and said it wasn't the same and invited himself over, more cheesecake he'd insisted. Apparently this excuse would keep resurfacing.

"They would have given me a hard time if I hadn't!" he exclaims softly in return, passing her a forkful of the cake. They would give him a hard time about not asking, but have given her a hard time about him asking? It seems those two have all their bases covered.

"Pawn them off on me then?" She's trying to sound unhappy about it, but failing. He knows she can handle Ryan and Esposito, even dishing back a few jibs of her own.

"I said I had a hot date. You were the one who reacted. They both saw it too," he speaks softly. "You just assumed it wasn't Alexis I was talking about. Don't you remember the wedding? You did the same thing then," he says, his lips against her temple as he speaks.

He's right, she did. He'd used the same description too. She sighs, leans into his hold more, toying with the material of his shirt, tight against his shoulder but the seam, the corner is loose, an ideal distraction.

"Thought I'd blow you off?" he asks softly.

She sighs again, resigned. If this is going to work, with him, with them, she has to be honest, even if she doesn't explain everything he can't be kept in the dark. She could probably get away with lying about this though he wouldn't-

He lifts his thigh beneath her, moving her whole body, shifting her focus as he shifts her. That is most certainly his favourite trick. "You in there?" he asks, waving the fork in her line of sight, slowly so the cake doesn't drop onto his shirt, or hers.

"Yeah, I just…" She got lost in her own thoughts, he knows that. And from the slightly amused look on his face he doesn't mind and kind of enjoyed it. "It was only for a second." She hates how soft her voice is, how hard it still is to confess silly things to him. She needs to get over it though, she knows, she's sitting in his lap (granted he put her there) sharing a ridiculously large piece of cake (granted he did that too) in sweats and a baggy tee (he'd certainly offered to help her change). It is not a situation she would have imagined herself in a few days ago. Sure, she'd been leaning toward him, willing to give it a shot, but she hadn't expected it to be so easy, the transition was seamless – it had her thinking Lanie was right, they were good for each other. She just had to hope it stayed this easy, this laidback. Once Gates found out, once they told her, things could get messy. Sure, the woman had interrogated her after she started, assuming they were sleeping together, claiming no one could have their partnership and not be. It was prohibited, she knew that.

She swallows closes her eyes and kisses him, he's only just taken the fork from his mouth but she doesn't care. She won't lose him, not here and not there. She may have to jump through hoops for Gates, but she'll do it.

"There's no one else," he mutters as he pulls back, rests his forehead against her own again. "And there isn't going to be." He's certain and she's glad, she needs him to be certain.

She doesn't say anything just steals the fork and feeds herself a bite.

"The plan actually isn't what I told the boys," he confesses quietly after she swallows her bite, feeding him one as she chews.

"It's not?" She's curious now. He told them he was cooking for the mysterious redhead. She realises now there should have been jokes from the boys about the implications of a home cooked meal. She really had missed the mark on that once. But were there implications of a home cooked meal between them? They've done it before, eaten numerous times with the other, home cooked or not. Though grilled cheese barely counts as home cooked. So why would the plans change now she's been added to the equation? Sure publicly he'd offered for her to join, since she'd already said she had no plans. She hadn't been lying, there hadn't been plans. She had expected there to be though, how could his final surprise not involve the day itself?

"It's not." His voice snaps her out of her scattered thoughts, her attempts at guessing, at understanding. Why bother when the man himself is sitting here offering to share?

"So what is it?" She's playing coy, eating the cake while she watches him follow her mouth, the squirm of her lips as she chews and then the line of her throat as she swallows. He swallows too and she chuckles, watches his eyes flick to hers as he smiles with her. Then she licks her lips, slowly, deliberately.

"Alexis has a date."

She raises her eyebrows in response. "Who? She didn't mention it yesterday." She's excited for the girl, since Ashley there hasn't been anything too steady.

"You'll see tomorrow night. But first we're cooking you dinner," he kisses her cheek, interrupting himself, "then she's going for ice-cream with this kid. So…" He trails off, he kisses her again, snakes his hands further around her waist, touching his own elbows as he presses her body completely to hers, leaving her to save the plate on her lap and defenceless to his movements, his words, implications abound.

She swallows, they really shouldn't. Not yet. It's too soon.

"I am going to buy a chocolate cake," he whispers against her face and she arches her neck, moving away so she can eye him cautiously, suspicious, hopefully sending him a silent warning. But he continues, ignoring her response, already decided, his words chosen. "And curl up with you on my couch just like this." He shifts her again, impossibly close, and she has to laugh.

"Hmm," she hums once she's regained her breath, leaning over, closing the small gap to press her mouth to his. It sounds great and at least he's not implying anything or buying something else, no pressure, no large leaps. He understands, she supposes he must feel the same, take it slow and don't mess it up.

When she pulls back she nestles her head into his neck. He should go soon, she'll send him on his way, but right now she wants to lie with him for another minute, just close her eyes and enjoy the feeling of being against his body before she goes and sleeps next to that pillow with the divot. She feels him crane his neck to look down at her after a second. Then he kisses her temple and she expects him to move back, resettle his cheek against the top of her head, but he doesn't.

A prong of the fork touches her bottom lip, gentle prodding. She doesn't bother to open her eyes, just opens her mouth to let him feed her what has to be the last of the cake, if it's not the last she'll start refusing.

"I should go you're tired," he says against her hair, resettled like she expected before.

"In a minute," she mutters and shifts her nose to press her lips to his neck, once, soft, no hesitation.

It's half an hour before either move, she doesn't want to make him but she has to. She nodded off for a second, woken only by his fingers touching her ear, a disruption in his toying, the twisting and twirling. But she needed it. He doesn't fight her as she stands, covering her stomach with the shirt, ignoring the fact his hand has been touching the skin there for the past fifteen minutes. It doesn't matter. But he has to go, she'll see him tomorrow. She gets to do this again tomorrow, and for many days after it. It causes a twang in her stomach as she realises she could do this, with him, for her whole life.

But she shakes her head, jolts herself to the present, back to their slow pace and their unspoken understanding. She finds him in front of her, his fingers skimming the edges of her top, exploring the skin at her back as he hugs her close. Tomorrow she might find that the pace quickens a little, he steps over a small pile of the rubble surrounding them, pulling her out, closer to some open happy field, a blissful place where the wreckage is just visible on the horizon. It will take more than a few days, but he's here, he's waited. Now she's opening herself to him, letting him help her, distract her, heal her. Whatever he's doing specifically doesn't matter, he's here. And he's staying judging by the way his fingers are dancing across her spine, teasing, testing boundaries, pushing limits, but being respectful, understanding, caring, honest. Then he kisses her once and he's gone, headed to the door.

She can't stop smiling as she heads to bed, her head swimming from his words, her skin tingling from his fingers, her mouth still tasting him there, still tasting the cake. Getting up and going to work is going to be difficult, being so close but so far away. At least she has tomorrow night to look forward to, but that will make it harder, so much harder.


	14. February 14th

**14th February**

"Don't," she warns him, holding a finger out in front of herself, watching as he stalks towards her, backing her into the corner of his kitchen.

But he does, ignores her feeble protests.

Except, he doesn't do what she expects. She expected him to press his wet hands, his dripping fingers into the small of her back or touch her face with them, but he doesn't.

He slides his fingers, only touching the skin of her neck for a second, the warm water cooling rapidly in the air of his apartment before he slides them up, into her hair, angling her head as he brings his mouth down to hers. She shivers at the feelings. His mouth, his fingers and his chest looming over her, it's all startlingly real, there. He's there and she's here.

She's surrounded by him, but he's hovering over her, not close enough, so she tugs him closer, draws against her with hands curled in his t-shirt until he's got his thighs pressed against hers, his hips pressed into her own, not too much, but enough. She shivers again and slides her hands around his back.

She puts her hands on his shoulders, pushes him back slightly when he's makes her shiver a third time. His fingers dancing on her neck as his body looms closer, setting every cell on fire, jolting it into an alert state , but not yet. They need to finish stacking the dishwasher and Alexis will come back into-

"Hey," Alexis greets cheerfully.

She meets the girl's eyes over his shoulder and gives a shy smile, busted.

But they're not. Or she doesn't care. It's like she hasn't even noticed the fact her father has backed his partner into the corner, both breathing a little heavy, the panic she's feeling surely showing up on her face.

But then Castle presses his lips to her cheek and steps away, catching her fingers and tugging her back to the sink, the water still washing over the dirty dishes.

"Almost ready?" he asks his daughter, flicking his eyes over her body, studying her outfit.

She has to smile at her partner's daughter now, hand on her hip, jutting it out, striking a pose. She looks effortlessly dressed but Kate knows that it takes the most effort to look effortless. But she's won't draw attention to that fact, it will become apparent she spent a great deal of time this morning considering her clothes purely because she knew that after work she'd be coming straight to the loft.

He gives a nod of approval and she can see the pride, watching him with his daughter has always amazed her.

The sound of her name causes her to turn back to Alexis, a little too quickly.

She opens her mouth to ask her to repeat herself, then realises the girl didn't say anything else. Alexis is asking with a different pose what she thinks, her opinion apparently relevant.

She smiles at the girl, wide, open. "You look great." It's her honest opinion.

Then she's announcing her date is downstairs, that she'll be back at eleven.

"Wait, he's not coming up?" Castle is stern, but she's pretty sure he just wants to give the kid a hard time. Not too much, just enough to make him squirm.

"No, he's not." Alexis is defiant, certain.

Kate doesn't know where to look, whose side to take. She can understand both sides but even if she had a preference she wouldn't speak up, not now.

She realises they're still talking, quietly, quickly. She keeps rinsing plates, nudges him aside so she can reach the dishwasher, keep busy.

Then his hands are on her hips, his mouth at her ear. "I'll be back," he whispers as he kisses her cheek, breath against her ear.

She opens her mouth to ask where he's going, what he's doing. But then she realises. They must have compromised that he'd come down the lobby, meet the elusive date. She should thank her again, but a quick glance in front of her tells her she's already gone, her partner following suit. She forces herself to keep washing, distract herself from the dinner she's just had cooked for her by her partner and his daughter. She'll have to thank him again as well.

She stops rinsing when she hears the door click shut. She's standing in his kitchen, washing dishes, smiling like a right-fool, completely alone in his loft. With father and daughter in the lobby greeting a prospective boyfriend the silence of the place, the calm that has settled around her isn't daunting, it's welcoming. She's grateful. Though she's run out of dishes to wash and she's been here a few times, helped with cleaning up, but never turned on the machine. So she's out of options, out of things to do.

* * *

><p>When he comes back he moves toward the kitchen, gets halfway across the empty space in the centre of the loft and finds she's not there, not even in the corner, hidden and out of sight.<p>

"Hey," she says. Her soft voice carrying through the silence just as he's about to turn around and find her anyways.

He moves over to her, unable to control the smile on his face. She's curled into the corner of his couch, already moving her legs so he can scoot in close to her and pull her against himself.

He does just that, kisses her softly before she offers him a forkful of the cake she's taken it upon herself to start.

"Thank you," she says softly while he chews.

He swallows it too soon, needing to respond, feels the lump slide down his throat. "You don't need to thank me for anything Kate."

"Yes I do." She's insistent, but it's hushed, quiet, like her heart really isn't in the fight.

"Okay." He decides to let her win, but he's got a condition. "Thank me all you like, but don't use words."

Her eyebrows rise, just the reaction he expected, such an easy mark. She's opening her mouth to speak, to protest, to make an excuse. He doesn't know, doesn't care. He's not finished.

"Keep coming back here, letting me take you out, and inviting me over. Keep doing this with me," he gestures between them, their position, their proximity, her fingers gripping his shoulder, her other hand holding the forkful of cake she'd just stabbed, his arm holding her flush against him and then flicks his eyes to the hand he's just slide into her hair. He feels the prickle across her skin, under the pads of his fingers.

She just nods in response, swallows under his gaze.

He can't help but chuckle at her and kiss her softly.

When he pulls back she's got the fork at his mouth, a glare in her eyes at his laugh.

* * *

><p>She feeds him the cake to shut him up, tries to glare at him but fails as he smiles around the fork.<p>

She sets the plate in the curve of her stomach, keeping it secure and flat with her thighs. She kisses him gently, the corners of his mouth, the edge of his lips, tracing the lines with small catches, pulling away as he responds each time. Only when she feels him swallow does she press her mouth to his properly, sealing her mouth to his, sealing his words.

He doesn't hesitate to respond, probably anticipated it. But his tongue is gliding over hers, exploring every corner of her mouth but taking the time to meet hers, touch, taste and tease and she no longer cares about the cake she can taste lingering in their mouths.

She feels herself shudder as he slides his hands to the skin of her back, distracting her from his new favourite pastime. He lifts his thighs, shifting her so he can hover over her, press her back into the couch a little.

She realises the cake is still between them, probably slid off the plate onto her clothes or having his shirt dragged over it as he hovers, moves so he's next to her.

She swallows, pulls back, takes her hand from his neck, touches the edge of the plate, finds it still there. He's watching her curiously, smiling like he's realised the same thing too.

He feels him shift her, raise her slightly off the couch, her weight supported by one arm, her shoulder digging into his armpit. She waits for the reappearance of his other hand, can feel it sliding over her skin, across her back. When it slides over the arch of her spine, it lingers for a second, skimming once, twice, three times as he watches her, intent. Then it quickly slides up over her hip, reappearing as she chooses to follow it, not watch him watch her. She needs to escape his intense gaze, collect herself for a moment.

But she doesn't get the chance, she watches his hand steal the plate then lean over her, kissing the side of her face as he sets it on the floor beside them.

"No more cake," he mutters as she follows his hand, watches it reappear over the edge of the couch and slide beneath her shoulder, gone from sight more permanently.

Then his hand is in her hair again, his elbow pressing down into the couch, dipping her toward it, flattening her out again, rolling her off his chest as he supports his weight, hovering over her.

She watches him lean down and closes her eyes as he kisses the corners of her mouth, skimming the edges of her mouth. Pay back apparently.

She swallows as he catches her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, touching his tongue to it once, just a brief second before he lets it go and pulls back. He repeats the process with her top lip.

She swallows as he lets it go.

"No more cake," she manages to say, breathy, a husk in her voice not at all related to her still scratchy throat. She wonders if he's felt the effects of it yet, caught the bug. He hasn't said anything, but he might fear she'll stop this if he's sick. There would be no point, she's already got it.

Then his mouth is on hers, firm and insistent, but slow and gentle.

* * *

><p>He isn't sure he's been lying here with her, but she hasn't made a move to leave. It must be late though. They're both getting lazier, dragging their lips across skin as they find the others mouth in response to a noise, a sigh, a breathy moan.<p>

But he's not moving, he's not even going to suggest she leaves tonight. He wants to keep her against him while he sleeps, no barrier of blankets this time.

He's glad he rolled off her a while ago, slide beside her and kept his mouth on hers as she shifted beside him, pressing him back into the cushion now below him and slide herself on top of him he had groaned into her mouth and wrapped his arms around her, keeping her there, trying to tell her not to move, ever.

"What're you thinking?" she asks as she leans back, regarding him. He realises he slide his hands from her hair and crushed her to his chest again, delighted as the rest of her body came as close.

"That we're never moving." He slides a hand up between her shoulders and forces her to lean back closer, so he can kiss her mouth without moving.

"We have to move. I have to work in the morning." She pulls back to speak, but not too far, just enough that she can meet his eyes, just close enough that he can still lean up and steal her mouth, stop her words.

"We have to," he amends against her mouth, feels her smile. Apparently he took the bait she set out, he doesn't even care. That's an old argument, him not really working with her.

But then she moves to slide off his body, has a foot on the floor before he realises, he took the bait and assumed she meant the other. He grabs her hips, finds his fingers, his palms span their width. "Not what I meant and you know it." He speaks through clenched teeth as he hauls her back against him, too easy. He'll have to keep feeding her cake, get her a bear claw everyday not just every few.

Then his mind stops, she's got a brow arched, her chest heaving and her eyes wide.

Then he realises what he's just done. He's ground her hips into his, still is actually, pressing her down firmly, keeping her there. The curve of a smile on her lips, just a hint in the corners, giving her away, suggests he doesn't have to keep her there.

She leans down and kisses him once as he loosens his grip, not moving his hands, taking the opportunity to graze his fingers along the top of her jeans, skimming over her sacrum.

She presses against him in response, smiling against his mouth then his cheek as she kisses a line to his ear.

"We should stop," she mutters, her breath hot against his skin as she slides her tongue over the corner of his ear, teasing.

He groans and slides his hands up beneath her shirt again, skimming the skin of her back, safe. The groan is more from her mouth than his disappointment. She will be the death of him. He can be patient, take it slow, but doing those things with her hips still pressed into his will not make it happen.

But then she's gone, her body curled around his, her legs around his, her knees squeezing his, her socked feet between his own, toes squirming against the top of his foot, her arms curled between their chests, her head on his shoulder still, mouth on his neck.

"I should head home. Tomorrow could be an early one," she offers quietly, not very convincing as she makes no move to get up, not that he would let her. But she's barely trying and it makes him giddy with excitement.

He presses his face into her hair. "One more minute."

She hums in agreement and relaxes further against him, kissing the skin of his neck once before she exhales and shifts her nose out of the crook of his neck. He can kiss her forehead now.

"One more minute," she repeats softly. She doesn't sound like she's going to be moving anytime soon.

* * *

><p><em>Okay folks I've got a short epilogue I'll post in a couple of hours. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, your responses have been overwhelming.<em>


	15. February 15th

****_So this turned into an extra chapter more than an epilogue, but I'm sure none of you will be complaining. Thank you all so much, enjoy!_

**15th February**

Kate wakes suddenly, noise disturbing her light sleep. The warm body beside her is still, breathing evenly. It wasn't Castle who woke her. Then she hears it.

"Dad, wake-up." A harsh whisper and a soft jolt.

She opens her eyes, lifts her head from his neck, facing her partners daughter.

"You okay?" she asks the girl, her eyes adjusting to the light seeping in from the hall, taking in the form of Alexis in the half lit room.

"Oh, Detective Beckett. Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." Alexis has recoiled slightly, stepped back like she plans to undo the act of waking her.

"Kate, please," she corrects her. She's not sure if it's reflex to switch to the formalities or if she's still not quite comfortable with their position, not that it is considerably compromising.

Alexis gives her a tight smile, acknowledgement and steps forward again, watching her dad, the rise and fall of his chest. Kate manages to rise up a little more, so she's not speaking to Alexis lying flat on her back.

She swallows, her throat dry from sleep, her throat still trying to recover. How long have they been asleep? It can't be too late. It is most definitely dark, but Alexis is in pyjamas so she hasn't just arrived home.

"You okay?" It seems like a feeble offer but maybe she can help. The look on the girl's face makes her think the date may not have gone so well.

"Oh." Alexis turns to look at her, chews on her bottom lip, hesitating. "Yeah I'm fine. I just… I was going to send you guys to bed."Alexis flicks her eyes to her dad again, Kate notices the angle of his neck. He may be comfortable right now, but in the morning he'll be whinging about it, probably relentlessly. "You can't sleep on the couch all night," Alexis offers softly, shrugging.

"What time is it?" Kate asks after a second of silence, just as Alexis tries again to rouse her dad, swatting his shoulder and speaking to him.

"Just after midnight," she says quickly. "Dad," her voice is a little louder as she pokes his slack cheek. Kate can't help but smirk.

"Deep sleeper, huh?" Kate asks his daughter softly.

After Alexis nods, she shifts the hand of the arm she's leaning on, hidden by their bodies and pokes his ribs, hard.

"Dad!" Alexis tries again, caught off guard as he grabs the hand she just as she pokes his shoulder.

"I'm awake. No more tag teaming," he mumbles, words slurred, still half-asleep. He's awake enough though to tug on his daughter's arm while crushing Kate against his side again, trapping her hand.

"Dad, you need to go to bed." It sounds like an order and Alexis meets Kate's eyes, looking for support.

She doesn't speak just slips from his grip and sits, managing to drape her legs over his, just touching the floor enough to stand, using the back of the couch for leverage.

He grumbles in protest, she feels his hand slide down her back as she stands, hears it slap against his thigh.

Then it's back before she can turn to speak, tell him to get up, that she's going home.

"Night Pumpkin." She hears him speak softly, his hand moving from her back so she turns to watch their exchange, intrigued. She realises, she may not have seen too much of her partner with his daughter before, but she has a feeling that is going to change.

"Thanks for waking us up. Even if it was a rude awakening." He glares at her over his daughter's shoulder but she catches his smile and shrugs in response.

"Night Kate," Alexis says softly as she pulls away from her dad. The smile she's giving her makes her feel that she most certainly will be seeing more of them together. She'd not expected such quick approval from the teen, hell she'd almost singlehandedly cooked an extravagant dinner for them all.

"Night, thanks again for dinner. Really." She watches Castle nod to his daughter as she flicks her eyes to him.

"You're welcome." She smiles, brushing it off as not too big of a deal. "He needed some help anyway," she teases, smirking at her dad as he feigns disgust.

"I did not." He touches his chest, feigned injury.

They both raise an eyebrow at him in response.

He sighs, drops his hand. "Okay, maybe a little," he resigns.

His daughter laughs while Kate just cracks half a smile, acknowledging him.

"I'll see you guys in the morning." Alexis waves to them as she steps back, turning to head upstairs.

"Not me," Kate volunteers. "I'm sure I'll see you soon though," she adds as the girl turns back around, not bothering to hide her shock.

"You're not staying?" both father and daughter ask at once.

She chuckles at them lightly.

"I have to get to the precinct early." She shrugs as she moves her eyes to her partner. "We have a case to solve."

"You can leave from here," he challenges, steps closer, slides his fingers through hers.

She's just about to step closer, kiss him then refuse, insist she has to go when Alexis speaks. "Plus he'll make pancakes for us."

Damn. Now she's got them both working against her.

She watches him exchange a glance with his daughter, a silent thanks she assumes.

"And coffee." He seems to have caught onto the game now, teasing, stepping closer, touching her waist.

She shivers as his fingers skim her back, but she leans away from him, still resisting. Why she is bothering she doesn't exactly know. But she has to maintain the argument at least for a while yet.

"I'm going to let you two, uh, work this out. I might see you both in the morning?" Alexis takes her leave, speaking quickly before she heads up the stairs.

"You _will_ see us both in the morning," Castle says pointedly to his retreating daughter, not breaking eye contact with Kate, leaning close as she swallows, pressing his mouth to hers softly.

"I should go, Castle," she mutters, finally leaning into the warmth of his chest.

"You're not going anywhere. It's well past midnight. By the time you get home…"

"Okay," she sighs.

"Hmm," he hums as he leans down and catches her lips with his own then his hands are on her hips, guiding her with him as he moves backwards toward his bedroom, kissing her softly repeatedly.

He stops walking to kiss her more intently when she touches her tongue to his lips.

When she has to stop to regain her breath, she presses her forehead to his chin, feels him press his lips to her skin.

"You know I never thought my plan would work?" he whispers as he moves to look down at her.

She blinks. "Why not?" she asks softly, quite curious about his hesitations, his doubts.

"I didn't know if you thought you were ready for this." He shrugs. "I could tell you were ready, everyone else could tell. Alexis asked me about it not long after Christmas." He chuckles softly, bittersweet. "She's the one who helped me with the plan, gave me some ideas."

"Really?" she asks. She's not sure which option she's asking about. Him and his daughter conspiring to bring them together or the fact he'd considered how ready she was before he began it all, probably discussed that with his daughter too.

"Yeah, all of it," he assures softly. Apparently he doesn't know what she's asking about either.

"Well I'm glad you did it. I was quite confused at first," she confesses, shrugging as he raises a brow, slides his arms further around her. "But I didn't consider running. I thought about it a lot though but never considered asking you to stop leaving things in my pockets or breaking into my apartment and rummaging around my bedroom."

"I had a key," he defends, squeezing a hip with a hand she didn't notice wandering. "It's hardly a B and E if I've got a key."

"Legally it still is." But she's not getting into technicalities; he's distracting her, easing her into this, showing he understands her. It makes her want to kiss him again.

She doesn't fight it, but does keep it brief, soft, habitual. She realises she'll have to be careful it doesn't become too much of a habit that she lets her guard down at work. She cringes inwardly at the thought of such a thing making their relationship shift public knowledge.

"When you asked me for dinner I didn't even consider that it wasn't a date."

He smiles widely in response, apparently glad to hear it.

"The stupid bear keeps following me around my apartment."

He laughs and kisses her once. "Did she dress herself in the outfit as well?" he asks, teasing as he shifts her whole body, turning so her back is to his chest as he gently spins them both, facing her toward his bedroom and nudging her forward.

"Maybe." She leans back harder against his chest, lets him wrap his arms further around her, one crossing her stomach, resting on her hip and the other across her chest, holding her shoulder, guiding, leading.

He kisses her neck once, laughs against her skin.

"But no more cake, or chocolate, or candy hearts, or bears, or cupcakes, or-"

"Okay, okay I get it."

"Are you sure? Because if we keep eating half a cake every night we'll both end up the size of whales." She may be teasing, but she's serious.

He chuckles and kisses her skin again, darting his tongue out to taste, nipping once with his teeth before he pulls away. "You have a long way to go before you're a whale, Kate."

"I know, but I don't need you to shower me with desserts to show me…" she trails off, realising where she was headed. Not sure they're ready for that. Now isn't the time to bring it up, delirious with chocolate cake, the warmth of his body, the prospect of curling up with him to sleep. Sure it's a fact they are both well aware of but-

He saves her.

"How I feel about you," he finishes for her before kissing her neck again, nipping softly, an attempt to distract her she's certain of it.

But that's wrong.

She shakes her head, feels him stop moving, ease his mouth off her skin.

As soon as she feels his mouth leave her she turns in his arms. She needs to face him if she's going to say it.

If she's going to take a damn leap of faith she needs him to catch her if she stumbles at the edge. She knows he will. He'll understand if she can't do this. But she knows its written on her face anyway so that will be enough for him, for now, until she can wrap her tongue around the words. Maybe she should make herself say them when she's alone, get her tongue used to it, like it's a foreign dialect she must learn. It kind of is.

But then he's in front of her, keeping his arms tight around her. He looks concerned, a little shocked and definitely uncertain. He doesn't know where she's going with this so she better find the damn words and find them fast.

She smiles before she starts, small but an attempt to reassure she's not sure he'll understand until she does. "How you feel about me is written all over your face. Everything you say and do tells me that, always has. But…" she trails off. Here comes the hard part.

She swallows as he skims his fingers over her jaw, encouraging she assumes, urging her to speak she knows.

"But I don't need any more gifts to show me you love me."

Now, was that so hard?

Surprisingly not.

"There are other ways you can show me," she volunteers, continuing as she slides her hands up along his arms to his shoulders, fingertips pressing into his skin, nails dragging over the fabric.

His eyebrows damn near touch the back of his head they raise so high so quickly.

She chuckles and kisses him purposefully.

He runs his hands over her back, exploring, finding glimpses of skin and pressing his own fingertips into the fabric of her shirt.

"Hmm," he hums against her mouth, pulling away enough to speak. "I think I can manage that," he taunts as he finds her hips, presses them to his own again.

She allows it for a second before she worms free, detaches their mouths, untangles her arms and legs from his own and draws her whole body, hips and all, away from him, headed to his room without him. He won't be far behind.

"You can start by finding me some sweats that I can sleep in." She throws the words back over her shoulder.

Then he's behind her again, crowding her but not touching, like he's unwilling to push his luck.

She sits on the end of his bed while he rummages for the clothes, apparently pants with a drawstring suit him fine. He tosses her a shirt a second later.

"I'll brush my teeth and change in there," he points over his shoulder, "you can change here, then we'll swap." He kisses her softly before he moves into his en suite, closing the door.

She slides on the much-too-big pants and the shirt that falls mid-way down her thighs, keeping her eyes on the en suite door. She could almost get away with that alone, but not tonight. Making teasing comments and kissing him is one thing, but being barely dressed and asking him to control himself is another. It wouldn't be fair.

Then he's speaking to her, asking if she's decent.

She nods.

Then realises he can't see her and has to laugh at herself.

"Yeah," she responds finally as she opens the door before he can, always competitive. She hopes that never changes, hopes their dynamic doesn't shift and falter. But the way he's looking at her as he leans in to kiss her again has her all but quaking under his gaze.

"I put a toothbrush on the counter," he volunteers.

"Thanks. I'll be a minute." She kisses him in thanks and because she can, habitual again. She's getting used to this much too quickly.

* * *

><p>He slides beneath the sheets as he listens to her wash her face, brush her teeth. It doesn't escape his notice that she never bothered to close the door. Whether it's habit from not having to in her own apartment or simply that she's comfortable with him listening to her splutter as she washes her face and spit as she brushes her teeth, he doesn't care.<p>

She stops as she comes out of the doorway, hands stop running through her hair too, no longer gathering it all together tying it with a band she's apparently pulled from thin air.

"What?" she asks, self conscious and moves to turn back into the bathroom, like she's got toothpaste on her shirt or something.

It is her shirt, it is not his anymore.

"Nothing," he calls to her back. "Just…" He waits until she turns to face him, still puzzled. "Get over here." He should have said something more witty, or romantic, or meaningful. But it's late and she's wearing his clothes. Sweatpants that are apparently falling off her slender frame, the crotch at her knees already, and a shirt that is almost a dress, swimming as she moves her hands above her head again, regathering the hair she dropped in her self-conscious state.

He hears her chuckle as she crawls over the bed, starting at the foot as she comes up beside him. He'd deliberately set himself in the middle so she had no choice but to be close to him on the huge mattress. He's already slid beneath the sheets and he notices that she's not moving to, just settled beside him head on the headboard, knees pulled almost tight to her chest. He's not sure if she's hesitating from fear or excitement.

Judging by her smile he is assuming the later.

He slides both arms around her lifts her slightly then drops an arm and flicks the edge of the covers, inching her feet beneath as he sets her back against the headboard and the mattress.

He slides down the bed, arms beneath the sheets as he rolls to face her.

She's watching him, curious, smiling.

Then he touches her foot, tugging on her ankle after skimming his fingers over the top of her foot. Ticklish feet, he'll have to make a note.

"You can't sleep up there," he prods, knowing she doesn't need too much encouragement, just a hint of a request. Just like that.

Then she's sliding over his sheets, pretending like it's an effort but it's not. He can see her smile through his dark bedroom. He's glad he didn't bother to turn the lights on, just the en suite which she thoughtfully flicked off as she left it. He doesn't think that he'd be able to bear pulling his body from hers for the second it would take to flick the lamp off.

"Night Castle," she mutters as she settles his head against his chest, apparently already close to sleep.

"Until tomorrow," he mutters.

"Today is tomorrow," she says, her voice husky and soft. Sleep has just about claimed her.

"I know," he murmurs into her hair.

He does. He's not about to fight over the technicalities with her.

Today's or tomorrow's he'll take them both, as many as he can get. He suspects there'll be more than a few.

_fin._

* * *

><p><em>Thank you to every single person who has read, altered, favourite andor reviewed this. It's been a fun ride._

_Thank you kimmiesjoy for your help with the gifts and their order. Your encouragement with the more difficult days is much appreciated. It's always fun to read your reviews and subsequent 'spoiler' demands : )_


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